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TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE

This etext differs from the original in the following ways. Some missing
periods have been inserted. The original used "some how" and "somehow"
about equally; all have been changed to "somehow." The OE ligature, used
several times, is shown as [oe]. In the advertisements at the end of the
book, uses of the pointing-hand symbols (Unicode #9758, White Right
Pointing Index, and Unicode #9756, White Left Pointing Index) have been
replaced with the right (") and left (") double-angle symbols from the
ISO 8859-1 character set. Finally, evident typographical errors have
been corrected as follows:

  someting > something, p. 63
  catankerous > cantankerous, p. 71
  veloscipeding > velocipeding, p. 99
  who'se > who's, p. 99
  turkies > turkeys, p. 110
  potatoe > potato, p. 121
  knowlege > knowledge, p. 155
  lagest > largest, p. 177
  pass > past, p. 190
  develope > develop, p. 249
  ot > not, p. 257
  governer > governor, p. 257
  handerchief > handkerchief, p. 261
  poverity > poverty, p. 279
  reconnoissances > reconnaissances, p. 281
  himsesf > himself, p. 288
  peaking > peeking, p. 311
  sponser > sponsor, p. 313
  aspsrations > aspirations, p. 336
  mortaged > mortgaged, p. 376
  woful > woeful, p. 400
  domicils > domiciles, p. 400
  Amercian > American, p. 409
  lubago > lumbago, p. 412
  somethiug > something, p. 420


       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "Go--goo--good Lord-d d! Ho--ho--hol--hold on!" "O, yeez
needn't be afear'd of that--I'm howldin' yeez tight as a divil!"--_Page_
92.]

       *       *       *       *       *

                 HUMORS OF FALCONBRIDGE

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "Are you de man advertised for de dogs, sa-a-ay? You
needn't be afraid o' dem; come a'here, lay down, Balty--day's de dogs,
mister, vot you read of!" "Ain't they rather fierce," responded the
rural sportsman, eyeing the ugly brutes. "Fierce? Better believe dey
are--show 'em a f-f-ight, if you want to see 'em go in for de chances!
You want to see der teeth?"--_Page_ 136.]

       *       *       *       *       *

                           THE

                 HUMORS OF FALCONBRIDGE:

                     A COLLECTION OF
              HUMOROUS AND EVERY DAY SCENES.

                            BY

                   JONATHAN F. KELLEY.

                      Philadelphia:
             T. B. PETERSON, No. 102 CHESTNUT STREET.

               [Library stamp: Univ. of California]

     Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1856, by

                      T. B. PETERSON,

  In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States,
         in and for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania.

       *       *       *       *       *

                        TO
              ISAAC S. CLOUGH, ESQ.,
                OF MASSACHUSETTS,

   AS A SLIGHT TOKEN OF MY REGARDS FOR YOUR JUST
            APPRECIATION OF A GOOD THING,

                  AS WELL AS FOR

  YOUR RARE GOOD SOCIAL WIT AND AGREEABLE QUALITIES;

                 AND MORE THAN ALL,

  FOR YOUR GENEROUS SPIRIT AND WELL-TESTED FRIENDSHIP,

              I DO WITH SINCERE PLEASURE,

     Dedicate unto you this Volume of my Sketches.

                           FRATERNALLY YOURS,

                                        FALCONBRIDGE.

       *       *       *       *       *




A BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF THE LATE JONATHAN F. KELLY.


The life of a literary man offers but few points upon which even the
pens of his professional brethren can dwell, with the hope of exciting
interest among that large and constantly increasing class who have a
taste for books. The career of the soldier may be  by the hues of
romantic adventure; the politician may leave a legacy to history, which
it would be ingratitude not to notice; but what triumphs or matters of
exciting moment can reasonably be hoped for in the short existence of
one who has merely been a writer for the press? After death has stilled
the pulses of a generous man such as Mr. Kelly was, it is with small
anticipation of rendering a satisfactory return, that any one can
undertake to sketch the principal events of his life.

It is, perhaps, a matter for felicitation that Mr. Kelly has been his
own autobiographer. His narratives and recitals are nearly all personal.
They are mostly the results of his own observation and experience; and
those who, in accordance with a practice we fear now too little attended
to, read the Preface before the body of the work, will, we trust,
understand that the stories in which "Falconbridge" claims to have been
an actor, are to be received with as much confidence as truthful
accounts, as if some Boswell treasured them up with care, and minutely
detailed them for the admiration of those who should follow after him.

Jonathan F. Kelly was born in Philadelphia, on the 14th day of August,
A. D. 1817. Young Jonathan was, at the proper age, placed at school,
where he acquired the rudiments of a plain English education, sufficient
to enable him, with the practice and experience to be gained in the
world, to improve the advantages derived from his tuition. He was, while
yet a boy, placed for a time in a grocery store, and subsequently was
employed by Lewis W. Glenn, a perfumer, whose place of business was then
in Third street above Walnut.

In 1837, Jonathan, being of the age of nineteen years, determined to go
out into the world to seek adventure and fortune. He accordingly set out
for that great region to which attention was then turned--the Western
country. Having but slight means to pay the expenses of traveling, he
walked nearly the whole of the journey. At Chillicothe, in Ohio, his
wanderings were for a time ended. The exposure to which he had been
subjected, caused a very severe attack of pleurisy. It happened most
fortunately for him that a kind farmer, Mr. John A. Harris, pitied the
boy; whose sprightliness, social accomplishments, and good conduct, had
made a favorable impression. He was taken into Mr. Harris' family, and
assiduously nursed during an indisposition which lasted more than two
months. This circumstance appeased his roving disposition for a time,
and he remained upon the farm of his good friend, Mr. Harris, for two
years, making himself practically acquainted with the life and toils of
an agriculturist. In 1839, he concluded to return to Philadelphia, where
he remained for a time with his family. But the spirit of adventure
returned. He connected himself with a theatrical company, and traveling
through Delaware, Maryland, and Virginia, was finally checked in his
career at Pittsburg, where he undertook the management of a hotel. This
business not being congenial, he soon sold out the establishment, and
returned to Philadelphia. He shortly afterwards started away on a
theatrical tour, which extended through most of the Southern States, and
into Texas. In this tour, Mr. Kelly went through a great variety of
adventures, saw many strange scenes, and obtained a fund of amusing
experience, which afterward served him to great advantage in his
literary sketches. After having thoroughly exhausted his roving desires,
he returned to Philadelphia, where, indeed, upon his previous visit, he
had become subject to a new attraction, the most powerful which could be
found to restrain his wandering impulses. He had become acquainted with
a worthy young lady, to whom, upon his return, and in the year 1842, he
was married.

This union changed the thoughts and objects of Mr. Kelly. His wild,
bachelor life was over; and he seriously considered how it was possible
for him who had been educated to no regular business, to find the means
of support for himself and family. Believing himself to have some
literary capacity, he was induced to go to Pittsburg, in order to
commence a newspaper in partnership with U. J. Jones. This enterprise
was not a successful one, and with his companion he went to Cincinnati,
where he enlisted in another newspaper speculation. The result of that
attempt was equally unpropitious. Dissolving their interests, Mr. Kelly
then removed with his family to New York. Here he commenced a journal
devoted to theatrical and musical criticism, and intelligence, entitled
"The Archer." Mr. J. W. Taylor was a partner with him in the
publication. The twain also engaged in the fancy business, having a
store in Broadway, above Grand street. The adventure there not being
very successful, the partnership in that branch of their concern was
dissolved, and Mr. Kelly commenced a book and periodical store nearly
opposite. This was about the year 1844. "The Archer" was soon after
discontinued, and Mr. K. returned to Philadelphia. About this time he
commenced writing contributions for various newspapers, under the
signature of "Falconbridge." His essays in this line, which were
published in the "New York Spirit of the Times," were received with much
favor, and widely copied by the press throughout the country. The
reputation thus attained, was such that he found himself in a fair way
to make a lucrative and pleasant livelihood. His sketches were in
demand, and were readily sold, whilst the prices were remunerative, and
enabled him to attain a degree of domestic comfort which he had before
that time not known. From Philadelphia he removed to Boston, where he
hoped to find permanent employment as an editor. During six months he
relied upon the sale of his sketches, and again returned to New York,
from which he was recalled by an advantageous offer from Paige & Davis,
if he would undertake the control of "The Bostonian." He filled the
editorial chair of that paper for two years, when it was discontinued.
He had now plenty to do, and was constantly engaged upon sketches for
the "Yankee Blade," "The N. Y. Spirit of the Times," and many other
journals and magazines, adopting the signatures, "Falconbridge," "Jack
Humphries," "O. K.," "Cerro Gordo," "J. F. K.," etc. During this time he
projected "The Aurora Borealis," which was published in Boston. It was
really one of the most handsome and humorous journals ever commenced in
the United States, but it was very expensive. After some months' trial,
"The Aurora Borealis" was abandoned. Mr. Kelly remained in Boston as a
general literary contributor to various journals until, in 1851, he was
induced to undertake the management of a paper at Waltham, Mass.,
entitled "The Waltham Advocate." This enterprise, after six months
trial, did not offer sufficient inducements to continue it, and Mr.
Kelly returned with his family to Boston. Whilst in that city, he had
the misfortune to lose his eldest son, a fine promising boy about five
years and four months old; he died after a sickness of between two and
three days. Mr. Kelly was a kind and excellent husband, and affectionate
father. He doted on his child; and the loss so preyed upon his spirits,
that it produced a brooding melancholy, which he predicted would
eventually cause his death. After this time, General Samuel Houston, of
Texas, made him very advantageous and liberal offers if he would
establish himself in that State. He left Boston for the purpose, but was
detained in Philadelphia by the sickness of another favorite child.
Whilst thus delayed, a proposal was made him to undertake the editorship
of "The New York Dutchman." He remained in that position about four
months, when still more advantageous offers were tendered him to conduct
"The Great West," published at Cincinnati. In September, 1854, he
reached that city, and entered upon his duties. He continued in the
discharge of them about four months. In the meanwhile, he had become
associated with the American party; and induced by those promises which
politicians make freely, and perform rarely, he left the journal to
which he was attached, to establish a paper entitled "The American
Platform." But two numbers of this effort were published. Whilst his
writings were lively and flowing, he was sick at heart. The loss of his
son still weighed on his mind, and he was an easy prey to pestilence. He
was attacked by Asiatic cholera; and died on the 21st of July, 1855,
after twenty-four hours' illness, leaving a widow and three children to
mourn his early death. His remains were deposited in Spring Grove
Cemetery. There rests beneath the soil of that beautiful garden of the
dead, no form whose impulses in life were more honest, generous, and
noble, than those which guided the actions of Jonathan F. Kelly.

The writer of this short biography, who only knew Mr. Kelly by his
literary works, and whose narrative has been made up from the
information of friends, feels that he would scarcely discharge the duty
he has assumed, without a few words of reflection upon the fitful
career so slightly traced. For the useful purpose of life, it may well
be doubted whether a dull, plodding disposition is not more certain of
success, than lively, impulsive genius. Perseverance in any one calling,
with a steady determination to turn aside for no collateral inducements,
and a patience which does not become discouraged at the first
disappointment, is necessary to the ultimate prosperity of every man.
The newspaper business is one which particularly requires constant
application, a determination to do the best in the present, and a firm
reliance upon success in the future. There is scarcely a journal or
newspaper in the United States, which has succeeded without passing
through severe ordeals, whilst the slow public were determining whether
it should be patronized, or waiting to discover whether it is likely to
become permanently established. Mr. Kelly's wanderings in early life
seem to have tinctured his later career with the hue of instability.
Ever, it would seem, ready to enlist in any new enterprise, he was led
to abandon those occupations, which, if persevered in, would probably
have been triumphant. His life was a constant series of changes, in
which ill-luck seems to have continually triumphed, because ill-luck was
not sufficiently striven with. In all these mutations, it will be the
solace of those who knew and loved him, that however his judgment may
have led him astray from worldly advantage, his heart was always
constant to his family. Affectionate and generous in disposition, he was
true to them; and he persevered in laboring for them under every
disadvantage. Altering his position--at times an editor--at times an
assistant-editor--anon changing his business as new hopes were roused
in his bosom--and then being a mere writer, depending upon the sale of
his fugitive sketches for the means of support--in all these experiments
with Fortune, he was ever true to the fond spirit which gently ruled at
home. For the great purposes, and high moral lessons of existence, a
faithful, constant heart has a wealth richer and more bountiful than can
be bought with gold.




CONTENTS.

                                                              PAGE

  If it ain't Right, I'll make it all Right in the Morning,     33
  Don't you believe in 'em,                                     37
  The old Black Bull,                                           38
  Dobbs makes "a Pint,"                                         42
  Used up,                                                      43
  The greatest Moral Engine,                                    50
  The Story of Capt. Paul,                                      51
  Hereditary Complaints,                                        58
  Nights with the Caucusers,                                    59
  Affecting Cruelty,                                            64
  The Wolf Slayer,                                              65
  The Man that knew 'em All,                                    74
  A severe Spell of Sickness,                                   79
  The Race of the Aldermen,                                     80
  Getting Square,                                               85
  People do differ,                                             89
  Bill Whiffletree's Dental Experience,                         90
  A-a-a-in't they Thick?                                        96
  A desperate Race,                                            101
  Dodging the Responsibility,                                  107
  A Night Adventure in Prairie Land,                           108
  Roosting Out,                                                114
  Rather Twangy,                                               119
  Passing around the Fodder,                                   120
  A Hint to Soyer,                                             123
  The Leg of Mutton,                                           124
  A Chapter on Misers,                                         129
  Dog Day,                                                     133
  Amateur Gardening,                                           138
  The two Johns at the Tremont,                                139
  The Yankee in a Boarding School,                             144
  A dreadful State of Excitement,                              149
  Ralph Waldo Emerson,                                         154
  Humbug,                                                      158
  Hotel keeping,                                               159
  "According to Gunter,"                                       164
  Quartering upon Friends,                                     165
  Jake Hinkle's Failings,                                      174
  What's going to Happen,                                      176
  The Washerwoman's Windfall,                                  177
  We don't Wonder at it,                                       181
  Old Maguire and his Horse Bonny Doon,                        182
  Getting into the "Right Pew,"                                187
  A circuitous Route,                                          192
  Major Blink's first Season at Saratoga,                      193
  Old Jack Ringbolt,                                           198
  Who killed Capt. Walker?                                     199
  Practical Philosophy,                                        203
  Borrowed Finery; or, killed off by a Ballet Girl,            204
  Legal Advice,                                                209
  Wonders of the Day,                                          213
  "Don't know you, Sir!"                                       214
  A circumlocutory Egg Pedler,                                 219
  Jolly old Times,                                             223
  The Pigeon Express Man,                                      224
  Jipson's great Dinner Party,                                 229
  Look out for them Lobsters,                                  236
  The Fitzfaddles at Hull,                                     241
  Putting me on a Platform!                                    247
  The exorbitancy of Meanness,                                 251
  "Taking down" a Sheriff,                                     252
  Governor Mifflin's First Coal Fire,                          257
  Sure Cure,                                                   261
  Chasing a fugitive Subscriber,                               262
  Ambition,                                                    266
  Way the Women fixed the Tale-bearer,                         267
  Penalty of kissing your own Wife,                            272
  Mysteries and Miseries of Housekeeping,                      274
  Miseries of a Dandy,                                         279
  A juvenile Joe Miller,                                       284
  "Selling" a Landlord,                                        285
  Scientific Labor,                                            288
  Who was that poor Woman?                                     289
  Infirmities of Nature,                                       293
  Andrew Jackson and his Mother,                               294
  Snaking out Sturgeons,                                       299
  Mixing Meanings--Mangling English,                           301
  Waking up the wrong Passenger,                               302
  Genius for Business,                                         306
  Have you got any old Boots?                                  307
  The Vagaries of Nature,                                      312
  A general disquisition on "Hinges,"                          317
  Miseries of Bachelorhood,                                    321
  The Science of Diddling,                                     322
  The re-union; Thanksgiving Story,                            324
  Cabbage _vs._ Men,                                           330
  Wanted--A young Man from the Country,                        331
  Presence of Mind,                                            336
  The Skipper's Schooner,                                      337
  Philosophy of the Times,                                     340
  The Emperor and the Poor Author,                             341
  The bigger fool, the better Luck,                            352
  An active Settlement,                                        356
  A Yankee in a Pork-house,                                    357
  German Caution,                                              361
  Ben. McConachy's great Dog Sell,                             362
  The Perils of Wealth,                                        367
  Nursing a Legacy,                                            372
  The Troubles of a Mover,                                     377
  The Question Settled,                                        382
  How it's done at the Astor House,                            383
  The Advertisement,                                           387
  Incidents in a Fortune-hunter's Life,                        400
  A Distinction with a Difference,                             408
  Pills and Persimmons,                                        409
  Mysteries and Miseries of the Life of a City Editor,         414
  The Tribulations of Incivility,                              415
  The Broomstick Marriage,                                     420
  Appearances are Deceitful,                                   427
  Cigar Smoke,                                                 431
  An everlasting tall Duel,                                    432

       *       *       *       *       *

           THE HUMORS OF FALCONBRIDGE.

       *       *       *       *       *




If it ain't right, I'll make it all right in the Morning!


A keen, genteely dressed, gentlemanly man "put up" at Beltzhoover's
Hotel, in Baltimore, one day some years ago, and after dining very
sumptuously every day, drinking his Otard, Margieux and Heidsic, and
smoking his "Tras," "Byrons," and "Cassadoras," until the landlord began
to surmise the "bill" getting voluminous, he made the clerk foot it up
and present it to our modern Don Caesar De Bazan, who, casting his eye
over the long lines of perpendicularly arranged figures, discovered
that--which in no wise alarmed him, however--he was in for a matter of a
cool C!

"Ah! yes, I see; _well_, I presume it's all right, all correct, sir, no
doubt about it," says Don Caesar.

"No doubt at all, sir," says the polite clerk,--"we seldom present a
bill, sir, until the gentlemen are about to leave, sir; but when the
bills are unusually large, sir--"

"Large, sir? Large, my dear fellow"--says the Don--"bless your soul, you
don't call _that_ large? Why, sir, a--a--that is, when I was in
Washington, at Gadsby's, sir, bless you, I frequently had my friends
of the Senate and the Ministers to dine at my rooms, and what do you
suppose my bills averaged a week, there, sir?"

"I can't possibly say, sir--must have counted up very _heavy_, sir, I
think," responds the clerk.

"Heavy! ha! ha! you may well say they were _heavy_, my dear
fellow--_five and eight hundred dollars a week!_" says the Don, with a
nonchalance that would win the admiration of a flash prince of the
realm.

"O, no doubt of it, sir; it is very expensive to keep company, and
entertain the government officers, at Washington, sir," the clerk
replies.

"You're right, my dear fellow; you're right. But let me see," and here
the Don stuck a little glass in the corner of his eye, and glanced at
the bill; "ah, yes, I see, $102.51--a--a--something--all right, I
presume; if it ain't right, _we'll make it all right in the morning_."

"Very good, sir; that will answer, sir," says the clerk, about to bow
himself out of the room.

"One moment, if you please, my dear fellow; that Marteux of yours is
really superb. A friend dined here yesterday with me--he is a--a
gentleman who imports a--a great deal of wine; he a--a--pronounces your
Schreider an elegant article. I shall entertain some friends to-night,
here, and do you see that we have sufficient of that 'Marteux' and
'Schreider' cooling for us; my friends are judges of a pure article, and
a--a I wish them to have a--a good opinion of your house. Understand?"

"Ah, yes, sir; that'll be all right," says the clerk.

"Of course; if it ain't, I'll make it all right in the morning!" says
the Don Caesar, as the official vanished.

"Well, Charles, did you present that gentleman's bill?" asks the host of
the clerk, as they met at "the office."

"Yes, sir; he says it's all right, or he'll make it all right in the
morning, sir," replies the clerk.

"Very well," says the anxious host; "_see that he does it_."

That evening a Captain Jones called on Don Caesar--a servant carried up
the card--Captain Jones was requested to walk up. Lieutenant Smith, U.
S. N., next called--"walk up." Dr. Brown called--"walk up." Col. Green,
his card--"walk up;" and so on, until some six or eight distinguished
persons were walked up to Don Caesar's private parlor; and pretty soon
the silver necks were brought up, corks were popping, glasses were
clinking, jests and laughter rose above the wine and cigars, and Don
Caesar was putting his friends through in the most approved style!

Time flew, as it always does. Capt. Jones gave the party a bit of a
salt-water song, Dr. Brown pitched in a sentiment, while Colonel Green
and Lieutenant Smith talked largely of the "last session," what _their_
friend Benton said to Webster, and Webster to Benton, and what Bill
Allen said to 'em both. And Miss Corsica, the French Minister's
daughter, what she had privately intimated to Lieutenant Smith in regard
to American ladies, and what the Hon. so and so offered to do and say
for Colonel Green, and so and so and so and so. Still the corks
"popped," and the glasses jingled, and the merry jest, and the laugh
jocund, and the rich sentiment, and richer fumes of the cigars filled
the room.

Don Caesar kept on hurrying up the wine, and as each bottle was uncorked,
he assured the servants--"All right; if it ain't all right, _we'll make
it all right in the morning!_"

And so Don Caesar and his _bon vivant_ friends went it, until some two
dozen bottles of Schreider, Hock, and Sherry had decanted, and the whole
entire party were getting as merry as grigs, and so noisy and
rip-roarious, that the clerk of the institution came up, and standing
outside of the door, sent a servant to Don Caesar, to politely request
that gentleman to step out into the hall one moment.

"What's that?" says the Don; "speak loud, I've got a buzzing in my ears,
and can't hear whispers."

"Mr. Tompkins, sir, the clerk of the house, sir," replies the servant,
in a sharp key.

"Well, what the deuce of Tompkins--hic--what does he--hic--does he want?
Tell--hic--tell him it's--hic--all right, or we'll make it all
right--hic--_in the morning_."

Mr. Tompkins then took the liberty of stepping inside, and slipping up
to Don Caesar, assured him that himself and friends were _a little too
merry_, but Don Caesar assured Tompkins--

"It's all--hic--right, mi boy, all--hic--right; these
gentlemen--hic--are all _gentlemen_, my--hic--personal friends--hic--and
it's all right--hic--all perfectly--hic--right, or we'll make it all
right in the morning."

"That we do not question, sir," says the clerk, "but there are many
persons in the adjoining rooms whom you'll disturb, sir; I speak for the
credit of the house."

"O--hic--certainly, certainly, mi boy; I'll--hic--I'll speak to the
gentlemen," says the Don, rising in his chair, and assuming a very
solemn graveness, peculiar to men in the fifth stage of libation deep;
"Gentlemen--hic--_gentle_men, I'm requested to state--hic--that--hic--a
very _serious_ piece of intelligence--hic--has met my ear. This
_gentle_man--hic--says somebody's dead in the next--hic--room."

"Not at all, sir; I did not say that, sir," says the clerk.

"Beg--hic--your pardon, sir--hic--it's all right; if it ain't all right,
I'll make it--hic--_all right in the morning!_ Gentlemen, let's--hic--us
all adjourn; let's change the see--hic--scene, call a
coach--hic--somebody, let's take a ride--hic--and return and go
to--hic--our pious--hic--rest."

Having delivered this order and exhortation, Don Caesar arose on his
pins, and marshalling his party, after a general swap of hats all
around, in which trade big heads got smallest hats, and small heads got
largest hats, by aid of the staircase and the servants, they all got to
the street, and lumbering into a large hack, they started off on a
midnight airing, noisy and rip-roarious as so many sailors on a land
cruise. The last words uttered by Don Caesar, there, as the coach drove
off, were:

"All right--hic--mi boy, if it ain't, _we'll make it all right in the
morning!_"

"Yes, that we will," says the landlord, "and if I don't stick you into a
bill of costs '_in the morning_,' rot me. You'll have a nice time," he
continued, "out carousing till daylight; lucky I've got his wallet in
the fire-proof, the jackass would be robbed before he got back, _and I'd
lose my bill!_"

Don Caesar did not return to make good his promise _in the morning_, and
so the landlord took the liberty of investigating the wallet, deposited
for safe keeping in the fire-proof of the office, by the Don; and lo!
and behold! it contained old checks, unreceipted bills, and a few
samples of Brandon bank notes, with this emphatic remark:--"All right,
if it ain't all right, WE'LL MAKE IT ALL RIGHT IN THE MORNING!"




Don't you believe in 'em?


We are astounded at the incredulity of some people. Every now and then
you run afoul of somebody who does not believe in spiritual knockers.
Enter any of our drinking saloons, take a seat, or stand up, and look on
for an hour or two, especially about the time "churchyards yawn!" and if
you are any longer skeptical upon the _spirit_-ual manifestations as
exhibited in the knee pans, shoulder joints, and thickness of the tongue
of the _mediums_,--education would be thrown away on you.




The Old Black Bull


It's poor human natur', all out, to wrangle and quarrel now and then,
from the kitchen to the parlor, in church and state. Even the fathers of
the holy tabernacle are not proof against this little weakness; for
people will have passions, people will belong to meetin', and people
will let their passions _rise_, even under the pulpit. But we have no
distinct recollection of ever having known a misdirected, but properly
interpreted _letter_, to settle a chuckly "plug muss," so efficiently
and happily as the case we have in point.

Old John Bulkley (grandson of the once famous President _Chauncey_) was
a minister of the gospel, and one of the best _edicated_ men of his day
in the wooden nutmeg State, when the immortal (or ought to be) Jonathan
Trumbull was "around," and in his youth. Mr. Bulkley was the first
_settled_ minister in the town of his adoption, Colchester, Connecticut.
It was with him, as afterwards with good old brother Jonathan (Governor
Trumbull, the bosom friend of General Washington), good to confer on
almost any matter, scientific, political, or religious--any subject, in
short, wherein common sense and general good to all concerned was the
issue. As a philosophical reasoner, casuist, and _good_ counselor, he
was "looked up to," and abided by.

It so fell out that a congregation in Mr. Bulkley's vicinity got to
loggerheads, and were upon the apex of raising "the evil one" instead of
a spire to their church, as they proposed and _split_ upon. The very
nearest they could come to a mutual cessation of the hostilities, was to
appoint a _committee_ of three, to wait on Mr. Bulkley, state their
_case_, and get him to adjudicate. They waited on the old gentleman, and
he listened with grave attention to their conflicting grievances.

"It appears to me," said the old gentleman, "that this is a very simple
case--a very trifling thing to cause you so much vexation."

"So I say," says one of the _committee_.

"I don't call it a trifling case, Mr. Bulkley," said another.

"No case at all," responded the third.

"It ain't, eh?" fiercely answered the first speaker.

"No, it ain't, sir!" quite as savagely replied the third.

"It's anything but a trifling case, anyhow," echoed number two, "to
expect to raise the minister's salary and that new steeple, too, out of
our small congregation."

"There is no danger of raising much out of _you_, anyhow, Mr. Johnson,"
spitefully returned number one.

"Gentlemen, if you please--" beseechingly interposed the sage.

"I haven't come here, Mr. Bulkley, to quarrel," said one.

"Who started this?" sarcastically answered Mr. Johnson.

"Not me, anyway," number three replies.

"You don't say I did, do you?" says number one.

"Gentlemen!--gentlemen!--"

"Mr. Bulkley, you see how it is; there's Johnson--"

"Yes, Mr. Bulkley," says Johnson, "and there's old Winkles, too, and
here's Deacon Potter, also."

"I _am_ here," stiffly replied the deacon, "and I am sorry the Reverend
Mr. Bulkley finds me in such company, sir!"

"Now, gentlemen, _brothers_, if you please," said Mr. Bulkley, "this is
ridiculous,--"

"So I say," murmured Mr. Winkles.

"As far as _you_ are concerned, it is ridiculous," said the deacon.

This brought Mr. Winkles _up_, standing.

"Sir!" he shouted, "sir!"

"But my dear _sirs_--" beseechingly said the philosopher.

"Sir!" continued Winkles, "sir! I am too old a man--too good a
Christian, Mr. Bulkley, to allow a man, a mean, despicable _toad_, like
Deacon Potter--"

"Do you call me--_me_ a despicable _toad_?" menacingly cried the deacon.

"Brethren," said Mr. Bulkley, "if I am to counsel you in your
difference, I must have no more of this unchristian-like bickering."

"I do not wish to bicker, sir," said Johnson.

"Nor I don't want to, sir," said the deacon, "but when a man calls me a
toad, a mean, despicable _toad_--"

"Well, well, never mind," said Mr. Bulkley; "you are all too excited
now; go home again, and wait patiently; on Saturday evening next, I will
have prepared and sent to you a written opinion of your case, with a
full and free avowal of most wholesome advice for preserving your church
from desolation and yourselves from despair." And the committee left, to
await his issue.

Now it chanced that Mr. Bulkley had a small farm, some distance from the
town of Colchester, and found it necessary, the same day he wrote his
opinion and advice to the brethren of the disaffected church, to drop a
line to his farmer regarding the fixtures of said estate. Having written
a long, and of course, elaborate "essay" to his brethren, he wound up
the day's literary exertions with a despatch to the farmer, and after a
reverie to himself, he directs the two documents, and next morning
despatches them to their several destinations.

On Saturday evening a full and anxious synod of the belligerent
churchmen took place in their tabernacle, and punctually, as promised,
came the despatch from the Plato of the time and place,--Rev. John
Bulkley. All was quiet and respectful attention. The moderator took up
the document, broke the seal, opened and--a pause ensued, while dubious
amazement seemed to spread over the features of the worthy president of
the meeting.

"Well, brother Temple, how is it--what does Mr. Bulkley say?" and
another pause followed.

"Will the moderator please proceed?" said another voice.

The moderator placed the paper upon the table, took off his spectacles,
wiped the glasses, then his lips--replaced his specs upon his nose, and
with a very broad _grin_, said:

"Brethren, this appears to me to be a very singular letter, to say the
least of it!"

"Well, read it--read it," responded the wondering hearers.

"I will," and the moderator began:

"You will see to the repair of the fences, that they be built high and
strong, and you will take special care _of the old Black Bull_."

There was a general pause; a silent mystery overspread the community;
the moderator dropped the paper to a "rest," and gazing over the top of
his glasses for several minutes, nobody saying a word.

"Repair the fences!" muttered the moderator at length.

"Build them strong and high!" echoed Deacon Potter.

"Take special care _of the old Black Bull!_" growled half the meeting.

Then another pause ensued, and each man eyed his neighbor in mute
mystery.

A tall and venerable man now arose from his seat; clearing his voice
with a hem, he spoke:

"Brethren, you seem lost in the brief and eloquent words of our learned
adviser. To me nothing could be more appropriate to our case. It is just
such a profound and applicable reply to us as we should have hoped and
looked for, from the learned and good man, John Bulkley. The direction
to repair the fences, is to take heed in the admission and government of
our members; we must guard the church by our Master's laws, and keep out
stray and vicious cattle from the fold! And, above all things, set a
trustworthy and vigilant watch over that old black bull, who is the
devil, and who has already broken into our enclosures and sought to
desolate and lay waste the fair grounds of our church!"

The effect of this interpretation was electrical. All saw and _took_ the
force of Mr. Bulkley's cogent advice, and unanimously resolved to be
governed by it; hence the old black bull was put _hors du combat_, and
the church preserved its union!




Dobbs makes "a Pint."


Dobbs walked into a _Dry Goodery_, on Court street, and began to look
around. A double _jinted_ clerk immediately appeared to Dobbs.

"What can I _do_ for you, sir?" says he.

"A good deal," says Dobbs, "but I bet you won't."

"I'll bet I will," says the knight of the yard-stick, "if I _can_."

"What'll you bet of that?" says the imperturbable Dobbs.

"I'll bet a fourpence!" says the clerk, with a cute _nod_.

"I'll go it," says Dobbs. "Now, trust me for a couple of dollars' wuth
of yur stuffs!"

"_Lost_, by Ned!" says yard-stick. "Well, there's the fourpence."

"Thank you; call again when I want to _trade!_" says Dobbs.

"Do, if you please; wouldn't like to lose your custom," says the clerk,
"no how."

Polite young man that--as soon as his chin vegetates, provided his
dickey don't cut his throat, he'll be arter the gals, Dobbs thinks!




Used Up.


I am tempted to believe, that few--very few men can start in the
world--say at twenty, with a replete invoice of honesty, free and
easy--kind, generous--good-natured disposition, and keep it up, until
they greet their fortieth year. There are, doubtless, plenty of men--I
hope there are, who _would_ be entirely and perfectly generous-hearted,
if they _could_, with any degree of consistency; and I know there are
multitudes who wouldn't exhibit an honorable or manly trait, of any
human description, if they could. That class thrive best, it appears to
me--if the accumulation of dollars and dimes be Webster, Walker, or
Scriptural interpretation of that sense--in this sublunary world.
Meanness and dishonesty win what good nature and honesty lose, hence the
more thrift to the former, and the less gain, pecuniarily considered, to
the latter. The subject is very prolific, and as my present purpose is
as much to point a humorous _sketch_ as to adorn a _moral_, I needs must
cut speculative philosophistics for facts, in the case of my friend John
Jenks, an emphatic--"used up" good fellow.

Jenks started in this world with a first-rate opinion of himself and the
rest of mankind. No man ever started with a larger capital of good
nature, human benevolence, and common honesty, than honest John. Few men
ever started with better general prospects, for "a good time," and
plenty of it, than Jenks. He _graduated_ with honor to himself and the
Institute of his native State, and with but little knowledge beyond the
college library and the social circles of his immediate friends. At
twenty-three, John Jenks went into business on his own hook.

Of course John soon formed various and many business acquaintances; he
learned that men were brothers--should love, honor, and respect one
another, from precepts set him at his father's fireside. He formed the
opinion, that this brotherhood was not to be alienated in matters of
business, for he never refused to act kindly to all; he freely loaned
his _autograph_ and purse to his business acquaintances; but, being
backed up by a snug business capital, he seldom felt the necessity of
claiming like accommodation, or he would have gotten his eye teeth cut
cheaper and sooner.

"Jenks," said a business man, stopping in at Jenks' counting room one
September morning, "Perkins & Ball, I see, have _stopped_--gone to
smash!"

"Have they?" quickly responded Jenks.

"They have, and a good many fingers will be burnt by them," replied the
informant. "By the way, Barclay says you have some of their _paper_ on
hand; is it true?" continued the man.

"I have some, not much," answered Jenks--"not enough at all events to
create any alarm as to their willingness or ability to take it up."

But in looking over his "accounts," Jenks found a considerably larger
amount of Perkins & Ball's _paper_ on hand, than an experienced business
man might have contemplated with entire Christian resignation. The
gazette, in the course of a few days, gave publicity to the _smash_ of
the house of Perkins, Ball & Co. There was a buzz "on 'change;" those
losers by the _smash_ were bitter in their denunciatory remarks, while
those gaining by the transaction snickered in their sleeves and kept
mum. Jenks heard all, and said nothing. He reasoned, that if the firm
were _smashed_ by imprudences, or through dishonest motives, they were
getting "an elegant sufficiency" of public and private vituperation,
without his aid. Though far from his thoughts of entering into such
"lists," and inclined to hold on and see how things come out--Jenks,
for the credit of common humanity, seldom recapitulated the amount, by
discounting, &c.--he was likely to be _in_ for, if P. & B. were really
"done gone." This resolve, like some _rules_, worked both ways.

As "honest John" was drawing on his gloves to leave his commercial
institution, after the above occurrences had had some ten days' _grace_;
one evening, the senior partner of the house of Perkins & Ball came in.
Greetings were cordial, and in the private office of Jenks, an hour's
discourse took place between the merchants; which, in brief
transcription, may be summed up in the fact, that Jenks received a
two-third indemnification on all _his_ liabilities _for_ the _smashed_
house of P. & B., which the senior partner assured him, arose from the
fact of his, Jenks', gentlemanly forbearance in not joining the clamor
against them, in the adverse hour, nor pushing his claims, when he had
reason to believe that they were down; quite down at the heel. Jenks
"hoped" he should never be found on the wrong or even doubtful side of
humanity, gentlemanly courtesy, or Christian kindness; they shook hands
and parted; the senior partner of the exploded firm requesting, and
Jenks agreeing, to say every thing he could towards sustaining the honor
of the house of P. & B., and recreating its now almost extinguished
credit. Those who fought the bankrupt merchants most got the least, and
because Jenks preserved an undisturbed serenity, when it was known that
he was as deeply a loser, they supposed, as any one, they were staggered
at his philosophy, or amused at his extreme good nature. This latter
result seemed the most popular and accepted notion of Jenks' character,
and proved the ground-work of his pecuniary destruction.

The firm of Perkins & Ball crept up again; Jenks had, on all occasions,
spoken in the most favorable terms of the firm; he not only freely
endorsed again for them, but stood their _referee_ generally. In the
meantime, Jenks' celebrity for good nature and open-heartedness had
drawn around him a host of patrons and admirers. Jenks' name became a
circulating medium for half his business acquaintances. If Brown was
short in his cash account, five hundred or a thousand dollars----

"Just run over to Jenks'," he'd say to his clerk; "ask him to favor me
with a check until the middle of the week." It was done.

"Terms--thirty days with good endorsed paper," was sufficient for the
adventurous Smith to _buy_ and depend on Jenks' _autograph_ to _secure_
the goods. When in funds, Bingle went where he chose; when a little
_short_, Jenks had his patronage. Jenks kept but few memorandums of acts
of kindness he daily committed; hence when the evil effects of them
began to revolve upon him--if not mortified or ashamed of his
"bargains," he at least was astounded at the results. Brown, whose due
bills or memorandums Jenks held, to the amount of seven thousand
dollars, accommodation _loans_, took an apoplectic, one warm summer's
day, after taking a luxurious dinner. Jenks had hardly learned that
Brown's affairs were pronounced in a state of deferred bankruptcy, when
the first rumor reached him that Smith had _bolted_, after a heavy
transaction in "woolens"--Jenks his principal endorser--Smith not
leaving assets or assigns to the amount of one red farthing.

"By Jove!" poor Jenks muttered, as he tremulously seated himself in his
back counting room--"that's shabby in Smith--very shabby."

The next morning's Gazette informed the community that Bingle had
failed--liabilities over $200,000--prospects barely giving hopes of ten
per cent, all around; and even this hope, upon Jenks' investigation,
proved a forlorn one; by a _modus operandi_ peculiar to the heartless,
self-devoted, _they_ got all, Jenks and the _few_ of his ilk, got
nothing!

For the first time in his life, Jenks became pecuniarily moody. For the
first time, in the course of his mercantile career, of some six years,
the force of reflection convinced him, that he had not acted his part
judiciously, however "well done" it might be, in point of honor and
manliness.

The next day Jenks devoted to a scrutiny of his accounts in general with
the business world. He found things a great deal "mixed up;" his
balance-sheet exhibited large surplusages accumulated on the score of
his leniency and good nature; by the credit of those with whom he held
business relations. A council of war, or expediency, rather,--_solus_,
convinced Jenks, he had either mistaken his business qualifications, or
formed a very vague idea of the soul--manners and customs of the
business world; and he broke up his council, a sadder if not a wiser
man.

"By Jove, this is discouraging; I'll have to do a very disagreeable
thing, very disagreeable thing: _make an assignment!_"

"Who'd thought John Jenks would ever come to that?" that individual
muttered to himself, as he proceeded to his hotel. And ere he reached
his plate, at the tea-table, a servant whispered that a gentleman with a
message was out in the "office" of the hotel, anxious to see Mr. Jenks.

"Mr. Jenks--John Jenks, I believe, sir?" began the person, as poor
Jenks, now on the _tapis_ for more ill news, approached the person in
waiting.

"Precisely, that's my name, sir," Jenks responded.

"Then," continued the stranger, "I've disagreeable business with you,
Mr. Jenks; _I hold your arrest!_"

"Good God!" exclaimed Jenks; "my arrest? What for?"

"There's the writ, sir; you can read it."

"A _writ_? Why, God bless you, man, I don't _owe_ a dollar in the world,
but what I can liquidate in ten minutes!"

"Oh, it's not debt, sir; you may see by the writ it's _felony!_"

If the man had drawn and cocked a revolver at Jenks, the effect upon his
nervous system could not have been more startling or powerful. But he
recovered his self-possession, and learned with dismay, that he was
arrested--yes, _arrested_ as an accessory to a grand scheme of fraud and
general villany, on the part of Smith, a conclusion arrived at, by those
most interested, upon discovery that Jenks had pronounced Smith "good,"
and endorsed for him in sums total, enormously, far beyond Jenks' actual
ability to make good!

It was in vain Jenks declared, and no man before ever dreamed of
doubting his word, his entire ability to meet all liabilities of his own
and others, for whom he kindly become responsible; for when the _bulk_
of Smith's _paper_ with Jenks' endorsement was thrust at him, he gave
in; saw clearly that he was the victim of a heartless _forger_.

But his calmness, in the midst of his affliction, triumphed, and he
rested comparatively easy in jail that night, awaiting the bright future
of to-morrow, when his established character, and "troops of friends"
should set all right. But, poor Jenks, he reckoned indeed without his
host; to-morrow came, but not "a friend in need;" they saw, in their
far-reaching wisdom, a sinking ship, and like sagacious rats, they
deserted it!

"I always thought Jenks a very good-natured, or a very _deep_ man," said
one.

"I knew he was too generous to last long!" said another.

"I told him he was _green_ to endorse as freely as he did," echoed a
third.

"Good fellow," chimed a fourth--"but devilish imprudent."

"He knows what he's at!" cunningly retorted a fifth, and so the good
but misguided Jenks was disposed of by his "troops of friends!"

But Perkins & Ball--they had got up again, were flourishing; they, Jenks
felt satisfied, would not show the "white feather," and the thought came
to him, in his prison, as _merrily_ as the reverse of that fond hope
made him _sad_ and sorrowful, when at the close of day, his attorney
informed him, that Perkins & Ball regretted his perplexing situation,
but proffered him no aid or comfort. They said, sad experience had shown
them, that there were no "bowels of compassion" in the world for the
fallen; men must trust to fortune, God, and their own exertions, to
defeat ill luck and rise from difficulties; _they_ had done so; Mr.
Jenks must not despair, but surmount his misfortunes with a stout heart
and a clear conscience, and profit, as they had, _by reverses!_

"Profit!" said Jenks, in a bitter tone, "_profit_ by reverses as _they_
have!"

"Why, Powers," he continued to his counsel, "do you know that if I had
been a tithe part as base and conscienceless as they are _now_, Perkins
& Ball would be beggars, if not inmates of this prison! Yes, sir, my
casting vote, of all the rest, would have done it. But no matter; I had
hoped to find, in a community where I had been useful, generous and
just, friends enough for all practical purposes, without carrying my
business difficulties to the fireside of my parents and other relations.
But that I must do now; if, _if they fail me, then---- I cave!_"

Two days after that conference of the lawyer and the merchant, "honest
John" learned, with sorrow, that his father was dead; estate involved,
and his friends at home in no favorable mood in reference to what they
heard of John Jenks and his "bad management" in the city.

John Jenks--heard no more--he "caved!" as he agreed to.

We pass over Jenks' _Smithsonian_ difficulty, which a prudent lawyer and
discerning jury brought out all right.

We come to 1850--some fifteen or eighteen years after John Jenks
"caved." The John Jenks of 183- had been ruined by his good nature, set
adrift moneyless, in a manner, with even a spotted reputation to begin
with; he "profited by his reverses," he was now a man of family--fifty,
fat, and wealthy, and altogether the meanest and most selfish man you
ever saw!

Jenks freely admits his originality is entirely--"_used up!_" The reader
may affix the _moral_ of my sketch--at leisure.




The Greatest Moral Engine.


Say what you will, it's no use talking, poverty is more potent and
powerful, as a moral engine, than all the "sermons and soda water," law,
logic, and prison discipline, ever started. All a man wants, while he
_has_ a chance to be honest, and to get along smoothly, is a good
situation and two dollars a day; give him five dollars a day, and he
gets lazy and careless; while at ten, or a hundred a day, he is sure to
cultivate beastly feeling, eat and sleep to stupefaction, become a
_roue_, or a rotten politician. A poor man, in misery, applies to God
for consolation, while a rich man applies to his banker, and tries on a
"<DW12>," or goes on a tour to Europe, and studies foreign folly and
French license. Poverty is great; in a Christian community, or a
thriving village, it is equal to "martial law," in suppressing moral
rebellion and keeping down the "dander!" And how faithful, too, is
poverty, says Dr. Litterage, for it sticks to a man after all his
friends and the rest of mankind have deserted him!




The Story of Capt. Paul.


I love to speak, I love to write of the mighty West. I have passed ten
happy and partly pleasant years travelling over the immense tracts of
land of the West and South. I have, during that time, garnered up
endless themes for my pen. It was my custom, during my travels, to keep
a "log," as the mariners have it, and at the close of the day I always
noted the occurrences that transpired with me or others, when of
interest, and opportunities were favorable to do so.

Several years ago I was stopping at Vevay, Indiana, a small village on
the Ohio river, waiting for a steamboat to touch there and take me up to
Louisville, Ky. It was in the fall of the year, water was very low, and
but few boats running. Shortly after breakfast, I took my rifle and
ammunition and started down along the river to amuse myself, and kill
time by hunting. Game was scarce, and after strolling along until noon,
I got tired and came out to the river to see if any boats were in sight,
as well as take shelter from a heavy shower of rain that had come on. I
sought an immense old tree, whose broad crown and thick foliage made my
shelter as dry as though under a roof, and here I sat down, bending my
eyes along the placid, quiet and noble river, until I was quite lost in
silent reverie. The rain poured down, and presently I heard a footstep
approaching from the woods behind, and at the same moment a rough, curly
dog came smelling along towards me. The dog came up to within a few rods
of me and stopped, took a grin at me and then disappeared again. But
my further anxiety was soon relieved by the appearance of a tall,
gaunt man, dressed in the usual costume of a western woodsman, jean
trowsers, hunting shirt, old slouched felt hat, rifle, powder horn,
bullet pouch, and sheath knife. He was an old man, face sallow and
wrinkled, and hair quite a steelish hue.

"Mornin', stranger," said he; "rayther a wet day for game?"

I replied in the affirmative, and welcomed him to my shelter. Having
taken a seat near me, on the fallen trunk of a small tree, the old man,
half to himself and partly to me, sighed--

"Ah! yes, yes, _our_ day is fast gwoin over; an entire new set of folks
will soon people this country, and the old settler will be all gone, and
no more thought of."

"I imagine," said I, interrupting his soliloquy, "that you are an old
settler, and have noted vast, wonderful changes here in the Ohio
Valley?"

"Wonderful; yes, yes, stranger, thar you're right; I have seen wonderful
changes since I first squatted 'yer, thirty-five years ago. Every thing
changes about one so, that I skearse know the old river any more. 'Yer
they've brought their steamboats puffin', and blowin', and skeerin' off
the game, fish, and alligators. 'Yer they've built thar towns and thar
store houses, and thar nice farm houses, and keep up sich a clatter and
noise among 'em all, that one fond of our old quiet times in the woods,
goes nigh bein' distracted with these new matters and folks."

"Well," said I, "neighbor, you old woodsmen will have to do as the
Indians have done, and as Daniel Boone did, when the advancing axe of
civilization, and the mighty steam and steel arms of enterprise and
improvement make the varmints leave their lairs, and the air heavy and
clamorous with the gigantic efforts of industry, genius, and wealth, you
must _fall back_. Our territories are boundless, and there are yet
dense forests, woods, and wilds, where the Indian, lone hunter, and
solitary beast, shall rove amid the wild grandeur of God's infinite
space for a century yet to come."

"Ah, yes, yes, young man; I should have long since up stakes and rolled
before this sweeping tide of new settlers, only I can't bar to leave
this tract 'yer; no, stranger, I can't bar to do it."

"Doubtless," I replied; "one feels a strong love for old homes, a
lingering desire to lay one's bones to their final resting place, near a
spot and objects that life and familiarity made dear."

"Yes, yes, stranger, that's it, that's it. But look down thar--thar's
what makes this spot dear to me--thar, do you see yon little
hillock--yon little mound? Thar's what keeps old Tom Ward 'yer for
life."

The old man seemed deeply affected, and sighed heavily, as he wiped the
moisture from his eyes with the back of his hand. I gazed down towards
the spot he had called my attention to, and there I beheld, indeed,
something resembling a solitary and lonely grave; wild flowers bloomed
around it, and a flat stone stood at the head, and a small stake at the
foot.

"'Tisn't often one comes this way to ask the question, and the Lord
knows, stranger, I'm always willing to tell the sad story of that lonely
grave. Well, well, it's no use to grieve always, the red whelps have
paid well for thar doins, and now, but few of 'em are spared to
repent--the Lord forgive 'em all," to which I involuntarily
echoed--"Amen!"

"Well, stranger, you see, about five-and-thirty years ago, I left
Western Virginia to come down 'yer in the Ohio valley. I well remember
the first glimpse I got of this stream; it war a big stream to me, and I
gloried in the sight of it. Thar war but few settlements then upon its
banks, and thar war none of your roarin', splashin' steamboats about;
but I like the steamboats--thar grand creatures, and go it like
high-mettled horses. Well, I war a young man then; me and my brother and
our old mother joined in with a neighbor, built a family boat, put in
our goods, and started off down the stream, towards the lower part thar
of Kentucky.

"Captain Paul, our neighbor, war an old woodsman, though he war a young
man; he had a wife and several fine, growin' children along with us, and
our journey for many days war prosperous and pleasant. Capt. Paul's
wife's sister war along with us, a fine young creature she war too. My
brother and her I always carc'lated would make a match of it when we
reached our journey's end; but poor Ben, God bless the boy, he little
dreampt he'd be cut off so soon in the prime of life, and leave his
bones 'yer to rot. I war young too, then, and little thought I should
ever come to be this old, withered-up creature you see me now,
stranger."

"Why, you appear to be a hearty, hale man yet," said I, encouraging the
old man to proceed in his narrative, "and no doubt shoot as well and see
as keenly and far as ever?"

"Ay, ay, I can drive a centre purty well yet; but my hand begins to
tremble sometimes, and I'm failing--yes, yes, I know I'm failing. But,
to go on with my story: I acted as sort of pilot. Then the country were
yet pretty full of Ingins, and mighty few cabins war made along the
river in them times. The whites and red-skins war eternally fighting. I
won't say which war to blame; the whites killed the creatures off fast
enough, and the Ingins took plenty of scalps and war cruel to the white
man whenever they fastened on him.

"Our old ark or boat war well loaded down; a few loose boards served as
a shelter from the sun and rain, and a few planks spiked to the sides
'bove water, kept the swells from rollin' in on us. Two black boys
helped the captain and I to manage the boat, and an old black woman
waited on the wimin folks and did the cooking.

"You see yon pint thar, up the river?" continued the narrator, pointing
his long, bony finger towards a great bend, and a point on the Kentucky
side of the stream.

"Yes," I replied, "I see it distinctly."

"Well, it war thar, or jest above thar, about sunset of a pleasant day,
that we came drifting along with our flat-boat, or _broad horn_, as they
were called in them days, when Captain Paul said he thought it would be
a snug place just behind the pint, to tie up to them same big trees yet
standin' thar as they did then. Ben, poor Ben and I concluded too, it
would be a clever place to camp for the night; so we headed the boat
in--for, you see, we always kept in the middle of the stream, as near as
possible, to keep clear of the red skins who committed a mighty heap of
depredations upon the movers and river traders, by decoyin' the boat on
shore, or layin' in ambush and firin' their rifles at the incautious
folks in the boats that got too nigh 'em. Guina and Joe, the two black
boys, rowed enough to get around the pint. We had no fear of the Ingins,
as we expected we war beyond thar haunts just thar; mother war gettin'
out the supper things, and Captain Paul's wife and sister were nestling
away the children. Just then, as we got cleverly under the lee of the
shore thar, I heard a crack like a dry stick snappin' under foot--

"'Thar's a deer or bar,' said the captain.

"'Hold on your oars,' says I--'boys, I don't like that--it 'tain't a
deer's tread, nor a bar's nether,' says I.

"By this time we had got within thirty yards of the bank--another slight
noise--the bushes moved, and I sung out--'Ingins, by the Lord! back the
boat, back, boys, back!'

"Poor Ben snatched up his rifle, so did the captain; but before we could
get way on the boat, a band of the bloody devils rushed out and gave us
a volley of shouts and shower of balls, that made these hills and river
banks echo again. Poor Ben fell mortally wounded and bleeding, into the
bottom of the boat; two of the captain's children were killed, his wife
wounded, and a bullet dashed the cap off my head.

"I shouted to the boys to pull, and soon got out of reach of the Ingins.
They had no canoes, bein' only a scoutin' war party; they could not
reach us. The wounded horses and cows kicked and plunged among the
goods, the wimin and children screamed.

"Oh! stranger, it war a frightful hour; one I shall remember to my dyin'
day, as it war only yesterday I saw and heard it. It war now dark, the
boat half filled with water, my brother dyin', Captain Paul nerveless
hangin' over his wife and children, cryin' like a whipped child. I still
clung on to my oar, and made the poor blacks pull for this side of the
river, as fast and well as thar bewildered and frightened senses allowed
'em.

"My poor mother leaned over poor Ben. She held his head in her lap; she
opened his bosom and the blood flowed out. He still breathed faintly--

"'Benjamin, my son,' said she, 'do you know me?'

"'Mother,' he breathed lowly. Mother tried to have him drink a cup of
water from the river, but he war past nourishment--and she asked him if
he knew he war dyin'?

"He gasped, 'Yes, mother, and may the Lord our God in heaven be merciful
to me, thus cut from you and life, mother--'

"'God's will be done,' cried my mother, as the pale face of her darlin'
boy fell upon her hand--he was gone.

"We reached shore, but dar not kindle a light, for fear the Ingins might
be prowlin' about on this side; yes, under this very tree, did we 'camp
that gloomy night. The whole of us, livin', dead, and wounded, lay 'yer,
fearin' even to weep aloud. About midnight, I took the two blacks, and
we dug yon grave and laid poor Ben in it, and the two children by his
side. It war an awful thing--awful to us all; and our sighs and sobs,
mingled with the prayers of the old mother, went to God's footstool, I'm
sure. We made such restin' places as circumstances permitted. I lay
down, but the cries of poor Captain Paul's wife and sister, cries of the
two survivin' children, and moans of us all, made sleep a difficult
affair. By peep of day I went down to the grave, and thar sat the old
mother. She had sat thar the live-long night; the sudden shock had been
too much for her.

"Two days afterwards the grave was opened and enlarged, and received two
more bodies, the wife of Captain Paul, and our kind, good old mother.
Thirty-five years have now passed. Could I leave this place? No; not a
day at a time have I missed seeing the grave, when within miles of it.
No, here must I rest too."

The old man seemed deeply affected. I could not refrain from taking up
the thread of his narrative to inquire what had become of Captain Paul
and his wife's sister.

"Well, poor thing, you see it war natural enough for her to love her
sister's children, and the captain, he couldn't help lovin' her too, for
that. The captain settled down here, about two miles back, and in a few
years the sister-in-law and he war man and wife, and a kind, good old
wife she is too. I've 'camped with 'em ever since, and with 'em I'll
die, and be put thar--thar, to rest in that little mound with the rest.
But I must bide my time, stranger--we must all bide our time. Now,
stranger, I've told you my sad story, I must ax a favor. Seeing as you
are a town-bred person, perhaps a preacher, I want you to kneel down by
that grave and make a prayer. I feel that it is a good thing to pray,
though we woods people know but little about it."

I told him I was not a minister in the common acceptation of the term,
but considering we all are God's ministers that study God's will and our
own duty to man, I could pray, did pray, and left the poor woodsman with
an exalted feeling, I hope, of divine and infinite grace to all who seek
it.

A boat touched Vevay that evening, and I left, deeply impressed with
this little story.




Hereditary Complaints.


Meanness is as natural to some people, as gutta percha beefsteaks in a
cheap boarding-house. Schoodlefaker says he saw a striking instance in
Quincy market last Saturday. An Irish woman came up to a turkey
merchant, and says she--

"What wud yees be after axin' for nor a chicken like that?"

"That's a turkey, not a chicken," says the merchant.

"Turkey? Be dad an' it's a mighty small turkey--it's stale enough, too,
I'd be sworn; poor it is, too! What'd yees ax for 'un?"

"Well, seein' it's pooty nigh night, and the last I've got, I'll let you
have it for _two and six_."

"Two and six? Hoot! I'd give yees half a dollar fur it, and be dad not
another cint."

"Well," says the _satisfied_ poultry merchant, "take it along; I won't
dicker for a cent or two."

Mrs. Doolygan paid over the half, boned the turkey, and went on her way
quite elated with the brilliancy of her talents in financiering! There's
one merit in meanness, if it disgusts the looker-on, it never fails to
carry a pleasing sensation to the bosom of the gamester.




Nights with the Caucusers.


Office-Seeking has become a legitimatized branch of our every-day
business, as much so as in former times "reduced gentlemen" took to
keeping school or posting books. In former times, men took to politics
to give zest to a life already replete with pecuniary indulgences, as
those in the "sere and yellow leaf" are wont to take to religion as a
solacing comfort against things that are past, and pave the way to a
very desirable futurity. But now, politicians are of no peculiar class
or condition of citizens; the success of a champion depends not so much
upon the matter, as upon the manner, not upon the capital he may have in
real estate, bank funds or public stocks, but upon the fundamental
principle of "confidence," gutta percha lungs and unmistakable amplitude
of--brass and bravado! If any man doubts the fact, let him look around
him, and calculate the matter. Why is it that _lawyers_ are so
particularly felicitous in running for, securing, and usurping most of
all the important or profitable offices under government? Lungs--gutta
percha lungs and everlasting impudence, does it. A man might as well try
to bail out the Mississippi with a tea-spoon, or shoot shad with a
fence-rail, as to hope for a seat in Congress, merely upon the
possession of patriotic principles, or double-concentrated and refined
integrity. Why, if George Washington was a Virginia farmer to-day, his
chance for the Presidency wouldn't be a circumstance to that of Rufus
Choate's, while there is hardly a lawyer attached to the Philadelphia
bar that would not beat the old gentleman out of his top boots in
running for the Senate! But we'll _cut_ "wise saws" for a modern
instance; let us attend a small "caucus" where incipient Demostheneses,
Ciceros, and Mark Antonies most do congregate, and see things "workin'."
It is night, a ward meeting of the unterrified, meat-axe,
non-intervention--hats off--hit him again--butt-enders, have called a
meeting to _caucus_ for the coming fall contest. "Owing to the
inclemency of the weather," and other causes too tedious to mention, of
some eight hundred of the _unterrified, non-intervention--Cuban
annexation--Wilmot proviso, compromise, meat-axe, hats off--hit him
again--butt-enders_--only eighty attend the call. Of these eighty
faithful, some forty odd are on the wing for office; one at least wants
to work his way up to the gubernatorial chair, five to the Senate, ten
to the "Assembly," fifteen to the mayoralty, and the balance to the
custom house.

Now, before the "curtain rises," little knots of the anxious multitude
are seen here and there about the corners of the adjacent neighborhood
and in the recesses of the caucus chamber, their heads
together--caucusing on a small scale.

"Flambang, who'd you think of puttin' up to-night for the _Senate_, in
our ward?" asks a cadaverous, but earnest _unterrified_, of a brother in
the same cause.

"Well, I swan, I don't know; what do you think of Jenkins?"

"Jenkins?" leisurely responded the first speaker; "Jenkins is a pooty
good sort of a man, but he ain't known; made himself rather unpop'ler by
votin' agin that _grand junction railroad to the north pole_ bill, afore
the Legislature, three years ago; besides he's served two years in the
Legislature, and been in the custom house two years; talks of going to
California or somewhere else, next spring--so I-a, I-a--don't think much
of Jenkins, anyhow!"

"Well, then," says Flambang, "there's Dr. Rhubarb; what do you think of
him? He's a sound _unterrified_, good man."

"A--ye-e-e-s, the doctor's pooty good sort of a man, but I don't think
its good policy to run doctors for office. If they are defeated it sours
their minds equal to cream of tartar; it spiles their practice, and
'tween you and I, Flambang, if they takes a spite at a man that didn't
vote for 'em, and he gets sick, they're called in; how easy it is _for
'em to poison us!_"

"Good gracious!--you don't say so?"

"I _don't_ say, of course I don't say so of Dr. Rhubarb. I only supposed
a case," replied the wily _caucuser_.

"A case? Yes-s-s; a feller would be a case, under them circumstances.
I'm down on doctors, then, Twist; but what do you say to Blowpipes? He's
one of our best speakers--"

"_Gas!_" pointedly responded Twist.

"Gas? Well, you voted for him last year, when he run for Congress; you
were the first man to nominate him, too!"

"So I was, and I voted for him, drummed for him, fifed and blowed; that
was no reason for my thinking him the best man we had for the office.
He's a demagogue, an ambitious, sly, selfish feller, as we could skeer
up; but, he was in our way, we couldn't get shut of him; I proposed the
nomination, and tried to elect him, so that we should get him out of the
way of our local affairs, and more deserving and less pretendin' men
could get a chance, don't you see? Now, Flambang, you're the man I'm
goin' in for to-night!"

"Me! Mr. Twist? Why, bless your soul, I don't want office!"

"Come, now, don't be modest. I'll lay the ground-work, you'll be
nominated--I'll not be known in it--you'll get the nomination--called
out for a speech--so be on the trigger--give 'em a rouser, and you're
in!"

Poor Flambang, a modest, retiring man, peaceable proprietor of a small
shop, in which, by the force of prudence and economy, he has laid up
something, has a voice among his fellow-citizens and some influence, but
would as soon attempt to carry a blazing pine knot into a powder
magazine, or "ship" for a missionary to the Tongo Islands, as to run for
the Legislature _and make a speech in public!_ Twist knows it; he
guesses shrewdly at the effect.

"Why don't you run?" says Flambang, after many efforts to get his
breath.

"Me? Well, if you don't want to _run_."

"_Run?_ I would as soon think of jumping over the moon, as running for
office!" answers Flambang. "But I thank you, thank _you_ kindly, for
your good intentions, for _your_ confidence(!), Twist, and whatever good
I can do for you, I'll do, and--"

Twist having secured the first step to his _plot_, enters the caucus
chamber in deep and earnest consultation with Flambang, and while
preparations are being made to "histe the rag," he is seen making
converts to his sly purposes, upon the same principle by which he
converted his modest friend, Flambang.

"Who are you going in for to-night?" asks another "ambitious for
distinction" _unterrified_ of "a brother."

"Well, I don't know; it's hard to tell; good many wants to be nominated,
and good many more than will be," was the cogent reply.

"That's a fact!" was the equally clear response. "But 'tween you and I,
Pepper--I'd like to get the nomination for the Senate myself!"

"No-o-o?"

"Yes, sir; why shouldn't I? Hain't I stood by the party?"

"Well, and hain't I stood by it, hung by it, fastened to it?"

"Pepper, you have; so have I; now, I'll tell you what I'll do. You hang
by me, for the Senate, and I'll go in for you for the House."

"Agreed; hang by 'em, give 'em a blast, first opening, and while you are
fifing away for me, I'll go around for you, Captain Johns."

"Flammer, you going to go in for Smithers, to-night?" asks another of
"the party," of a confederate.

"Smithers? I don't know about that; I don't think he's the right kind of
a man for mayor, any how; do you?"

"Well, you know he's an almighty peart chap in talkin', and I guess
he'll be elected, if he's nominated and goes around speaking; but here
he is; let's feel his pulse." After a confab of some minutes between
Flammer, Smithers, and Skyblue, things seem to be fixed to mutual
satisfaction, and something is "dropped" about "go in for me for the
Mayoralty, I'll go in for you for the Senate," etc.

"Don't let on, that I'm _anxious_, at all, you know," says Smithers, to
which the two allies Skyblue and Flammer respond--"O, of course not!"

Now the curtain rises, the meeting's organized, with as much formality,
fuss and fungus as the opening of the House of Parliament; soon is heard
the work of balloting for nominations, and soon it is known that _Twist_
is _the_ man for the Senate--this calls _Twist_ out; he spreads--feels
overpowered--this unexpected (!) event--attending as a spectator, not
anticipating any thing for himself--proud of the unexpected honor--had
long served as a _private_ in the ranks of the _unterrified_--die in the
front of battle, if his friends thought proper, etc., etc. And Twist
falls back, mid great applause of the multitude, to give way to Capt.
Johns, who also felt overpowered by the unexpected rush of honor put
upon him, in connecting his name with the senatorial ticket. He was
proud of being thought capable of serving his country, etc., etc.; gave
his friend Pepper "a first-rate notice." Pepper was nominated, made a
speech, and so highly piled up the agony in favor of Smithers, that
Smithers was nominated--made a speech in favor of Skyblue and Flammer,
upon the force of which both were nominated--the wheel within a wheel
worked elegant; and the organs next day were sublimely eloquent upon the
result of the grand caucus--candidates--unanimity--etc., etc., of these
subterranean politicians. So are our great men manufactured for the
public.




Affecting Cruelty.


A hard-fisted "old hunker," who has made $30,000 in fifty-one years, by
saving up rags, old iron, bones, soap-grease, snipping off the edges of
halves, quarters, and nine-pences, raised the whole neighborhood t'other
evening. He came across a full-faced Spanish ninepence, and in an
attempt to extract the jaw-teeth of the head, the poor thing squealed
so, that the bells rang, and the South End watchmen hollered fire for
about an hour! This "old gentleman" has a way of _sweating_ the crosses
from a smooth fourpence, and makes them look so bran new, that he passes
them for ten cent pieces! One case of his benevolence is "worthy of all
praise;" he recently _gave away_ to a poor Irishman's family, a bunch of
cobwebs, and an old hat he had worn since the battle of Bunker Hill;
upon these bounties the Irishman started into business; he boiled the
hunker's hat, and it yielded a bar of soap and a dozen tallow candles!
If old Smearcase continues to fool away his hard-earned wealth in that
manner, his friends ought to buy an injunction on his _will!_




The Wolf Slayer.


In 1800 the most of the State of Ohio, and nearly all of Indiana, was a
dense wilderness, where the gaunt wolf and naked savage were masters of
the wild woods and fertile plains, which now, before the sturdy blows of
the pioneer's axe, and the farmer's plough, has been with almost magical
effect converted into rich farms and thriving, beautiful villages.

In the early settlement of the west, the pioneers suffered not only from
the ruthless savage, but fearfully from the _wolf_. Many are the tales
of terror told of these ferocious enemies of the white man, and his
civilization. Many was the hunter, Indian as well as the Angle-Saxon,
whose bones, made marrowless by the prowling hordes of the dark forest,
have been scattered and bleached upon the war-path or Indian trail of
the back-woods. In 1812-13, my father was contractor for the
north-western army, under command of Gen. Wm. Henry Harrison. He
supplied the army with beef; he bought up cattle along the Sciota valley
and Ohio river, and drove them out to the army, then located at
Sandusky. Chillicothe, then, was a small settlement on the Sciota river,
and protected by a block house or rude fort, in which the inhabitants
could scramble if the Indians made their appearance. My father resided
here, and having collected a large drove of cattle, he set out up the
valley with a few mounted men as a kind of guard to protect the drove
against the prowling minions of Tecumseh.

The third day out, late in the afternoon, being very warm weather, there
arose a most terrific thunder-storm; the huge trees, by the violence of
the wind and sharp lightning, were uprooted and rent into thousands of
particles, and the panic-stricken herd scattered in every direction. I
have seen the havoc made in forests through which one of these tornadoes
has taken its way, or I should be incredulous to suppose whole acres of
trees, hundreds of years old, could be torn up, or snapped off like
reeds upon the river side.

The fury of the whirlwind seemed to increase as the night grew darker,
until cattle, men and horses, were killed, crippled and dispersed. My
father crawled under the lee of a large sycamore that had fell, and
here, partly protected from the rain and falling timber, he lay down. I
have camped out some, and can readily anticipate the comfort of the old
gentleman's situation, and not at all disposed was he to go to sleep
mounted upon such guard.

At length the work of destruction and ruin being done, the storm abated,
the rain ceased to _pour_ and the winds to wag their noisy tongues so
furiously. A wolf _howl_, and of all fearful howls, or yelps uttered by
beasts of prey, none can, I think, be more alarming and terrific to the
ear than the _wolf_ howl as he scents carnage. A wolf howl broke
fearfully upon the drover's ear as he lay crouched beneath the sycamore.
It was a familiar sound, and therefore, and _then_ the more dreadful.
The drover carried a good Yeager rifle, knife, and pistols, but a man
laden with arms in the midst of a troop of famished wolves, was as
helpless as the tempest-tossed mariner in the midst of the ocean's
storm. The _howl_ had scarcely echoed over the dark wood, before it was
answered by dozens on every side! And as the drover's keen eye pierced
the gloom around him, the dancing, fiery glare of the wolf's eyes met
his wistful gaze.

The forest now resounded with the maddened banqueting beast, and as the
glaring eyes came nearer and nearer, the drover hugged his Yeager
tightly, and prepared to defend life while yet it lasted. Suddenly the
sharp crack of a rifle was heard, and then a loud scream or cry of
terror burst upon the air, a rushing sound, a man pursued by a troop of
wolves fled by the drover and his cover; scream after scream rent the
air, and the drover knew that a companion had fell a victim to the wolf
in his attempt at self-defence. The night was a long one, and thus,
among the savage beasts, a fearful one. The report of another rifle
again broke upon the ear, and again, and again did the hunting iron
speak, and the wolf howl salute it. A pair of eyes glared hurriedly upon
the drover, and he could not resist the desire to use his Yeager, and
the wolf taking the contents of the rifle in his mouth, rolled over,
while a score rushed up to fill his place. Oh! how dreadful must have
been the suspense and feelings of the drover as he lay crouched under
the old tree, surrounded by this horde of glaring eyes, his ears split
with their awful _howl_, and their hot and venomous breath fairly in his
face! But the wolf is a base coward, and will not meet a man eye to eye,
and so protected lay the drover, with his clenched teeth and unquivering
eye, that the wolf had no chance to attack, but by rushing up to his
very front. The red tongue lapped, the fierce teeth were arrayed and the
demon eyes glaring, but the drover quailed not, and the cowardly wolf
stood at bay. The sharp crack of the distant rifle still smote upon the
air and the loud howl still went up over the forest around. The first
faint streaks that deck the sky at morn, the fresh breath of coming day
caught the keen scent of the bloody prowlers, and they began to skulk
off. The drover gave the retreating cowards a farewell shot from his
pistols, tumbled a lank, grey demon over, and the wolf howl soon died
off in the distance.

Daylight now appeared, and the drover crawled from his lair. His loud
_whoop!_ to the disbanded men and drove was answered by the neigh of a
horse, who came galloping up, and proved to be his own good hunter, who
seemed happy indeed to meet his master. Another _whoop-e_ brought a
responsive shout, and finally four men out of the twelve, with seven
horses and a few straggling cattle, were mustered. The forest was strewn
with torn carcasses of cattle and horses, mostly killed by the falling
timber, and partly devoured by the ravenous wolves. A few hundred yards
from the tree where the drover lay, was found a few fragments of
clothes, the knife and rifle, and a half-eaten body of one of the
soldiers. He had fought with the desperation of a mad man, and the dead
and crippled wolves lay as trophies around the bold soldier. In a hollow
near the river they found a horse and man partly eaten up, and several
cattle that had apparently been hotly pursued and torn to death by the
rapacious beasts. They started out in search of the spot from whence the
drover had heard the firing in the night. They soon discovered the
place; at the foot of a large dead sycamore stump, some twelve feet high
lay the carcasses of a dozen or twenty wolves. Each wolf had his scalp
neatly taken off, and his head elaborately bored by the rifle ball. An
Indian ladder, that is, a scrubby saplin', trimmed with footholds left
on it, was laying against the old tree, at the top of which was a sort
of a rude scaffold, contrived, evidently, by a hunter. At a distance, in
a hollow, was seen a great profusion of wolf skulls and bones, but no
sign of a human being could there be traced. The party made a fire, and
as beef lay plenty around, they regaled themselves heartily, after their
night of horror and disaster. Having finished their repast, they
separated, each taking different courses to hunt and drive up such of
the stray cattle as could be found. My father, whom I have designated as
the drover, pursued his way over the vast piles of fallen, tangled
timber, leaping from one tree to the other. As he was about to throw
himself over the trunk of a mighty prostrate oak, he found himself
within two feet of one of the largest and most ferocious wolves that
ever expanded its broad jaws and displayed its fierce tushes to the eye
of man. Both parties were taken so suddenly by surprise, by this
collision, that they seemed to be rooted to the spot without power to
move. I have heard of serpents charming birds, said the drover, but I
never believed in the theory until I found myself fairly magnetized by
this great she-wolf. The wolf stood and snarled with its golden fiery
eye bent upon the drover, who never moved his steady gaze from the
wolf's face.

There is not a beast in existence that will attack a man if he keeps his
eyes steady upon the animal, but will cower and sneak off, and so did
the wolf. But no sooner had she turned her head and with a howl started
off, than a blue pill from the drover's Yeager split her skull, and
brought her career to a speedy termination.

_Whoo-ep!_

A shout so peculiar to the lusty lungs of the western hunter made the
welkin ring again, and as the astonished drover turned towards the
shouter, he beheld a sight that proved quite as formidable as the wolf
he had just slain.

"Well done, stranger; you're the man for me; I like you. That shot done
my heart good, though I was about to do the old she devil's business for
ye, seeing as you war sort o' close quartered with the varmint."

"Thank you," responded the drover, addressing the speaker, a tall,
gaunt, iron-featured, weather-beaten figure, with long grey hair, and a
rude suit of wolf-skin clothing, cap and moccasins. He held in his long
arms a large rifle, a knife in his belt, and a powder horn slung over
his side. He seemed the very patriarch of the woods, but good humored,
and with his rough hilarity soon explained his presence there.

"Well, stranger," said he, "you have had a mighty chance of bad luck yer
last night, and I never saw them cursed varmints so crazy afore."

"Do you live in these parts?" inquired the drover.

"Ha! ha! yes, yes," replied the hunter. "I live yer, I live anywhar's
whar wolf can be found. But you don't know me, I reckon, stranger?"

"I do not," said the drover.

"Ha! ha! well, that's quare, mighty quare. I thought thar warn't a man
this side the blue ridge but what knows me and old _kit_ here, (his
rifle.) Well, seeing you are a stranger, I'll just take that old
sarpent's top-knot off, and have a talk with ye."

With this introductory of matters, the hunter in the wolf-skins scalped
the wolf, and tucking the scalp in his belt, motioned the drover to
follow. He led the way in deep silence some half a mile to a small
stream, down which they proceeded for some distance, until they came to
a low and rudely-constructed cabin. Here the hunter requested the drover
to take a seat on a log, in front of the cabin, while he entered through
a small aperture in his hut, and brought forth a pipe, tobacco, and some
dried meat. These dainties being discussed, old Nimrod the mean time
kept chuckling to himself, and mumbling over the idea that there should
be a white man or _Ingin_ this side the blue ridge that didn't know
_him_.

"Ha! ha! well, well, I swar, it is curious, stranger, that you don't
know me, _me_ that kin show more _Ingin_ skelps than any white man that
ever trod these war paths; _me_, who kin shoot more wolves and fetch in
more of the varmints' skelps in one night than any white man or _Ingin_
that ever trod this wilderness. But I'm gittin' old, very old,
forgotten, and here comes a white man clean and straight from the
settlements and he don't know me; I swar I've lived to be clean ashamed
o' myself." And with this soliloquy, half to himself and partly
addressed to the drover, the old hunter seemed almost fit to cry, at his
imaginary insignificance and dotage.

"But, friend," said the drover, "as you have not yet informed me by what
name I may call you--"

"_Call_ me, stranger? why I _am_"--and here his eyes glared as he threw
himself into a heroic attitude--"Chris Green, _old_ Chris Green, the
_wolf slayer!_ But, God bless ye, stranger, p'r'aps you're from t'other
side the ridge, and don't know old Chris's history."

"That I frankly admit," replied the drover.

"Well, God bless ye, I love my fellow white men, yes, I do, though I
live yer by myself, and clothe myself with the varmints' skins, go but
seldom to the settlements, and live on what old kit thar provides me.

"Well, stranger, my history's a mighty mournful one, but as yer unlucky
like myself and plenty of business to 'tend to 'fore night, I'll make my
troubles short to ye.

"Well, you see about thirty years ago, I left the blue ridge with a
party of my neighbors to come down yer in the Sciota country, to see it,
and lay plans to drive the cussed red skins clean out of it. Well, the
red skins appeared rather quiet, what few we fell in with, and monstrous
civil. But cuss the sarpints, there's no more dependence to be put in
'em than the cantankerous wolves, and roast 'em, I always sets old kit
talkin' Dutch to them varmints, the moment I claps eyes on 'em. The
wolf's my nat'ral inimy--I'd walk forty miles to git old kit a wolf
skelp. Well, we travelled all over the valley, and we gin it as our
opinion that the Sciota country was the garden spot o' the world, and if
we could only defend ourselves 'gainst the inimy we should move right
down yer at once. We went back home, and the next spring a hull
settlement on us came down yer. My neighbors thought it best for us all
to settle down together at Chillicothe, whar a few Ingin huts and cabins
war. I had a wife, and son and da'ter; now, stranger, I loved 'em as
dearer to me 'nor life or heart's blood itself. Well, the red skins soon
began to show their pranks--they stole our cre'ters (horses), shot down
our cattle, and made all manner o' trouble for the little settlement. At
last I proposed we should build a clever-sized block house, strong and
stanch, in which our wimen folks and children, with a few men to guard
'em, could hold out a few days, while a handful o' us scoured Paint
hills and the country about, and peppered a few of the cussed red
devils. We had been out some four or five days when we fell in with the
inimy; it war just about sunset, and the red skins war camped in a
hollow close by this spot. We intended to let 'em get through their
smoking and stretch themselves for the night, and then squar our
accounts with 'em. Stranger, I've lived in these woods thirty years, I
never saw such a hurricane as we had yer last night, 'cept once. The
night we lay in ambush for the _Ingins_, six-and-twenty years ago, thar
came up a hurricane, the next mornin' eleven of the bodies of my
neighbors lay crushed along the bottom yer, and for a hundred miles
along the Sciota, whar the hurricane passed, the great walnuts and
sycamore lay blasted, root and branch, just as straight as ye'd run a
bee line; no timber grow'd upon these bottoms since. Five on us escaped
the hurricane, but before day we fell in with a large party of red
skins, and we fought 'em like devils; three on us fell; myself and the
only neighbor left war obliged to fly to the hills. I made my way to the
settlement.

"Stranger, when I looked down from the hills of Paint creek, and saw the
block house scattered over the bottom, and not a cabin standin' or a
livin' cre'ter to be seen in the settlement of Chillicothe, my heart
left me; I become a woman at once, and sot down and cry'd as if I'd been
whipped to death." The old man's voice grew husky, and the tears
suffused his eyes, but after a few sighs and a tear, he proceeded:

"Well, you see, stranger, a man cannot always be a child, nor a woman,
either; my crying spell appeared to ease my heart amazin'ly. I
shouldered old kit here, and down I went to examine things. The
hurricane had scattered every thing; the fire had been at work too, but,
great God! the bloody _wolf_ had been thar, the settlement was kivered
with the bloody bones of my own family and friends; if any had escaped
the hurricane, the fire or wolf, the _Ingins_ finished 'em, for I never
seen 'em afterwards; I couldn't bear to stay about the place, I'd no
home, friend, or kindred. I took to the woods, and swore eternal death
to the red skins and my nat'ral inimy, the _wolf!_ I've been true to my
word, stranger; that cabin is lined with skelps and ornamented with
Ingin _top-knots!_ Look in, ha! ha! see there! they may well call old
Chris the _Wolf Slayer!_"

The drover regaled his eyes on the trophies of the old forlorn hunter,
and then visited the _perch_, which was situated close by a "deer lick,"
where wolves resorted to fall upon their victims. And from this _perch_
old _Wolf Slayer_ had made fearful work upon his nat'ral inimy the night
previous. The old hunter assisted, during the day, to collect such of
the scattered drove as yet were alive or to be found; the men came with
another of their companions, and the small drove and men left the scene
of terror and disaster, wishing a God-speed to the _Wolf Slayer_.




The Man that knew 'em All.


If you have ever "been around" some, and taken notice of things, you
have doubtless seen the man who knows pretty much every thing and every
body!

I've seen them frequently. As the old preacher observed to a venerable
lady, in reference to _forerunners_, "I see 'em now." Well, talking of
that rare and curious specimen of the human family, the man that knows
every body, I've rather an amusing reminiscence of "one of 'em."
Stopping over night at the Virginia House, in that jumping off place of
Western Virginia, Wheeling, some years ago, I had the pleasure or
pastime of meeting several of the big guns of the nation, on their way
from Washington city, home. It was in August, I think, when, as is most
generally the case, the Ohio river gets monstrous low and feeble; when
all of the large steamers are past getting up so far, and travelling
down the river becomes quite amusing to amateurs, and particularly
tedious and monotonous to business people, bound home. Three hundred
travellers, more or less, were laying back at the "Virginia" and "United
States," in the aforesaid hardscrabble of a city, or town, waiting for
the river to get up, or some means for them to get down.

The session of Congress had closed at Washington, some time before, and
as almost all of the M. C.'s, U. S. S.'s, wire pullers, hangers on,
blacklegs, horse jockeys, etc., etc., came over "the National Road" to
Wheeling, to take the river for Southern and Western destinations, of
course the assemblage at that place, at that time, was promiscuous, and
quite interesting; at least, Western and Southern men always make
themselves happy and interesting, home or abroad, and particularly so
when travelling. It was a glorious thing for the proprietors of the
hotels, to have such a host of guests, as a house full of company always
is a "host," the guests having nothing else to do but lay back, eat,
drink, and be merry, and foot the bills when ready, or when opportunity
offers, to---- go.

They drank and smoked, and drank again, and told jests, and played games
and tricks, and thus passed the time along. Among the multitude was one
of those ever-talkative and chanting men of the world, who knew all
places and all men--as _he_ would have it. Just after removing the
cloth, at dinner, a knot of the old jokers, bacchanalians and wits,
settled away in a cluster, at the far end of a long table, and were
having a very pleasant time. The man of all talk was there; he was the
very _nucleus_ of all that was being said or done. He was from below,
somewhere, on his way, as he informed the crowd, to Washington city,
upon affairs of no slight importance to himself and the country in
general.

"Oho!" says one of the party, a sly, winking, fat and rosy gentleman,
whom we shall designate hereafter, "you're bound to the capital, eh?"

"Yes, _sir_," responded the man of all talk.

"Of course you've been there before?" says the interrogator, nudging a
friend, and winking at the rest.

"_What?_ Me been in Washington before? Ha, ha! _me_ been _there_ before!
Bless you, me _been_ in Washington city!"

"Oho! ha, ha!" says the interrogator, "you're one of the caucus folks,
eh? One of them wire pullers we read about, eh?"

"_Me?_ Caucus? Ha, ha! Mum's the word, gents, (looking killingly
cunning.) Come, gentlemen, let's fill up. Ha, ha! me pulling the--ha,
ha! Well, here's to the old Constitution; let's hang by her, while
there's a--a--a button on Jabe's coat."

And they all responded, of course, to this eloquent sentiment.

"Here's to Jabe's buttons, coat, hat, and breeches."

"Excuse me," continued the first operator, after the toast was wet down,
"you'll please excuse me, in behalf of some of my friends here; as
you've been down in that dratted place, and must know a good deal of the
goings on there, I'd like to inquire about a few things we Western folks
don't more than get an inkling of, through the papers."

"Certainly; go on, sir," says the victim, assuming all the dignity and
depth of a man that's appealed to to settle a ponderous matter.

"I'd like to inquire if those Kitchen Cabinet disclosures of the
Pennsylvania Senator, were true. Had you ever any means of satisfying
yourself that there is, or was, a real service of gold in the
President's house?"

"Aye! that's what we'd all like to know," says another.

"How many pieces were there?"

"_What_ were they?"

"Aye, and what their _heft_ was?"

"Mum, gentlemen; let's drink--no tales out of school, ha, ha! No,
no--mum's the word." And looking funny and deep, merry and wise, all at
one and the same time, the man of all talk proposed to drink and
keep---- _mum_.

But they wouldn't drink, and insisted on the secret being let out--they
wanted a decided and positive answer, from a man who knew the ropes.

"Gentlemen," said the victim, dropping his voice into a sort of
melo-dramatic stage whisper, and stooping quite over the table, so as to
collect the several heads and ears as close into a phalanx as possible:
"gentlemen, it's a _fact!_"

"What?" says the party.

"All gold!" says the victim.

"A gold service?" inquires the party.

"_Thirty-eight pieces!_" continued the victim.

"Solid gold?" chimed the rest.

"_Just half a ton in heft!_"

"You don't tell us _that_?"

"Know it; eat out of 'em, _then weighed 'em all!_"

"P-h-e-w!" whistled some, while others went into stronger exclamations.

"_Fact, by the great_ ----"

"Oh, it's all right, sir; no doubt of it now, sir," said the mover of
the business, grasping the victim's upraised arm.

"Then, of course, sir, you're well acquainted with Matty Van; on good
terms with the little Magician," continued the leading wag.

"_Me?_ me on good terms with Matty? Ha, ha! that is a good joke; never
go to Washington without cracking a bottle with the little fox, and
staying over night with him. _Me_ on good terms with Matty? _We've had
many a spree together!_ Yes, _sir!_" and the knowing one winked right
and left.

"Well, there's old Bullion," continued one of the interrogators, a fine
portly old gent, "you know him, of course?"

"What, Tom Benton? Bless your souls, I don't know my letters half as
well as I know old Tom."

"And Bill Allen, of Ohio?" asked another. "What sort of a fellow is
Bill?"

"Bill Allen? Lord O! isn't he a <DW53>? Bill Allen? I wish I had a dime
for every horn, and game of bluff, we've had together."

"Well, there's another of 'em," inquiringly asked a fat, farmer-looking
old codger: "Dr. Duncan, how's he stand down there about Washington?"

"Oh, well, he's a pretty good sort of an old chap, but, gents, between
you and I, (with another whisper,) there is a good deal of the 'old
fogie' senna and salts about him. But then he's death and the pale hoss
on poker."

"What, Doctor Duncan?" says they.

"Why, y-e-e-s, of course. Didn't he skin me out of my watch last winter,
playing poker, at Willard's?"

"Well," continued the fat farmer-looking man, "I didn't know Duncan
_gambled_?"

"Mum, not a word out of school; ha, ha! Let's drink, gents. Gamble? Lord
bless you, it's common as dish-water down there--I've played euchre for
hours with old Tom Benton, Harry Clay and Gen. Scott, _right behind the
speaker's chair!_"

_Then_ they all _drank_, of course, and some of the party liked to have
choked. The company now proposed to adjourn to the smoking room, and
they arose and left the table accordingly. The man of all talk
promenaded out on to the steps, and in course of half an hour, says the
leading spirit of the late dinner, or wine party, to him:--

"Mr. ----a--a--?"

"Ferguson, sir; George Adolphus Ferguson is my address, sir," responded
the victim.

"Mr. Ferguson, did you know that your friend Benton was in town?"
inquired the wag.

"What, Tom Benton here?"

"And Allen," continued the wag.

"What, Bill Allen, too?" says the victim.

"And Doctor Duncan."

"You don't tell me all them fellows are here?"

"Yes, sir, your friends are all here. Come in and see them; your friends
will be delighted," says the wag, taking Mister Ferguson by the arm, to
lead him in.

"Ha, ha! I'm a--a--ha, ha! _won't_ we have a time? But you just step
in--I a--I'll be in in one moment," but in less than half the time, Mr.
Ferguson mizzled, no one knew whither!

The gentlemen at the table, it is almost needless to say, were no others
than Benton, Allen, Duncan, and some three or four other arbiters of the
fate of our immense and glorious nation, in her councils, and fresh from
the capital.

Ferguson has not been heard of since.




A Severe Spell of Sickness.


It is the easiest thing under heaven to be sick, if you can afford it.
What it costs some rich men for family sickness per annum, would keep
all the children in "a poor neighborhood" in "vittels" and clothes the
year round. When old Cauliflower took sick, once in a long life-time, he
was prevailed upon to send for Dr. Borax, and it was some weeks before
Cauliflower got down stairs again. At the end of the year Dr. Borax sent
in his bill; the amount gave Cauliflower spasms in his pocket-book, and
threatened a whole year's profits with strangulation.

"Doctor," says Cauliflower, "that bill of yours is all-fired steep,
isn't it?"

"No, sir," says Borax; "your case was a dangerous case--I never raised a
man from the grave with such difficulty, in all my practice!"

"But, fifty-three _calls_, doctor, one hundred and six dollars."

"Exactly--two dollars a visit, sir," said the urbane doctor.

"And twenty-seven prescriptions, four plasters, &c.--eighty-one
dollars!"

"One hundred and eighty-seven dollars, sir."

"Well," says Cauliflower, "this may be all very _well_ for people who
can af-_ford_ it, but I can't; there's your money, doctor, but I'll bet
you won't catch me sick as that again--_soon!_"




The Race of the Aldermen.


In 183-, it chanced in the big city of New York, that the aldermen elect
were a sort of _tie_; that is, so many whigs and so many democrats. Such
a thing did not occur often, the democracy usually having the supremacy.
They generally had things pretty much all their own way, and distributed
their favors among their partizans accordingly. The whigs at length
_tied_ them, and the _locos_, beholding with horror and misgivings, the
new order of things which was destined to turn out many a holder of fat
office, many a pat-riot overflowing with democratic patriotism, whose
devotion to the cause of the country was manifest in the tenacity with
which he clung to his place, were extremely anxious to devise ways and
means to keep the whigs at bay; and as the day drew near, when the
assembled Board of Aldermen should have their sitting at the City Hall,
various _dodges_ were proposed by the locos to out-vote the whigs, in
questions or decisions touching the distribution of places, and
appointment of men to fill the various stations of the new municipal
government.

"I have it--I've got it!" exclaimed a round and jolly alderman of a
democratic ward. "To-night the Board meets--we stand about eight and
eight--this afternoon, let two of us invite two of the whigs, Alderman
H---- and Alderman J----, out to a dinner at Harlem, get H---- and J----
tight as wax, and then we can slip off, take our conveyance, come in,
and vote the infernal whigs just where we want them!"

"Capital! prime! Ha, ha, ha!" says one.

"First rate! elegant! ha, ha, ha!" shouts another.

"Ha, ha! haw! haw! he, he, he!" roared all the locys.

"Well, gentlemen, let's all throw in a V apiece, to defray expenses; we,
you know, of course, must put the whigs _through_, and we must give them
a rouse they won't forget soon. Champagne and turtle, that's the ticket;
coach for four _out_ and two _in_. Ha, ha!--The whigs shall see the
elephant!"

Well, the purse was made up, the coach hired, and the two victims, the
poor whigs, were carted out under the pretence of a grand aldermanic
feast to Harlem, the scene of many a spree and jollification with the
city fathers, and other bon vivants and gourmands of Gotham.

Dinner fit for an emperor being discussed, sundry bottles of "Sham" were
uncorked, and their effervescing contents decanted into the well-fed
bodies of the four aldermen. Toasts and songs, wit and humor, filled up
the time, until the democrats began to think it was time that one of
them slipped out, took the carriage back to the city, leaving the other
to _fuddle_ the two whigs, and detain them until affairs at "the Tea
Room," City Hall, were settled to the entire satisfaction of the
democrats.

"Landlord," says one of the democrats, whom we will call Brown,
"landlord, have you any conveyance, horses, wagons, carriages or carts,
by which any of my friends could go back to town to-night, if they
wish?"

"Oh, yes," says the landlord, "certainly--I can send the gentlemen in if
they wish."

"Very well, sir,--they may get very _tight_ before they desire to
return--they are men of families, respectable citizens, and I do not
wish them, under any circumstances, to leave your house until morning.
Whatever the bill is I will foot, provided you deny them any of your
means to go in to-night. You understand!"

"Oh! yes, sir--if you request it as a matter of favor, that I shall
keep your friends here, I will endeavor to do so--but hadn't you better
attend to them yourself?"

"Well, you see," says Brown, "I have business of importance to
transact--must be in town this evening. Give the party all they
wish--put that in your fob--(handing the host an X)--post up your bill
in the morning, and I'll be out bright and early to make all square. Do
you hark?" says Brown.

"Oh, yes, sir--all right," responded the landlord.

Brown gave his confederate the _cue_, stepped out, promising to "be in
in a minute," and then, getting into a carriage, he drove back to the
city, almost tickled to death with the idea of how nicely the whigs
would be "dished" when they all met at the City Hall, and came up minus
_two!_

Smith, Brown's loco friend, did his best to keep the thing up, by
calling in the New Jersey thunder and lightning--vulgarly known as
Champagne--and even walked into the aforesaid t. and l. so deeply
himself, that a man with half an eye might see Smith would be as blind
as an owl in the course of the evening. But Smith was bound to do the
thing up brown, and thought no sacrifice too great or too expensive to
preserve the loaves and fishes of his party. All of a sudden, however,
night was drawing on a pace, the whigs began to smell a _mice_. The
absence of Brown, and the excessive politeness and liberality of Smith,
in hurrying up the bottles, settled it in the minds of the whigs, that
something was going on dangerous to the whig cause, and that they had
better look out--_and so they did_.

"Jones," says one of the whigs, _sotto voce_, to the other, "Brown has
cleared; it is evident he and Smith calculate to corner us here, prevent
your presence in 'the Tea Room' to-night, and thus defeat your vote."

"The deuce! You don't think that, Hall, do you?"

"Faith, I do; but we won't be caught napping. Waiter, bring in a bottle
of brandy."

"Brandy?" said Smith, in astonishment. "Why, you ain't going to dive
right into it, in that way, are you?"

"Why not?" says Hall. "Brandy's the best thing in the world to settle
your nerves after getting half fuddled on Champagne, my boy; just you
try it--take a good stiff horn. Brown, you see, has _cut_, we must
follow; so let's straighten up and get ready for a start. Here's to 'the
loaves and fishes.'" Jones and Hall took their horns of Cogniac, which
does really make some men sober as judges after they are very drunk on
real or spurious Champagne.

"Well," says Smith, "it's my opinion we'll all be very _tight_ going in
this way, brandy on Champagne; but here goes to the fishes and
loaves--the loaves and fishes, I mean."

The brandy had a rather contrary effect from what it does usually; it
did _settle_ Smith--in five minutes he was so very "boozy" that his chin
bore down upon his breast, he became as "limber as a rag," and snored
like a pair of bagpipes.

"Now, Jones," says Hall, "let's be off. Landlord, get us a gig, wagon,
carriage, cart, any thing, and let's be off; we must be in town
immediately."

"Sorry, gentlemen, but can't oblige you--haven't a vehicle on the
premises!"

"Why, confound it, you don't pretend to say you can't send us into town
to-night, do you?" says Jones, waxing uneasy.

"Haven't you a horse, jackass, mule or a wheelbarrow--any thing, so we
can be carted in, right off, too?" says Hall.

"Can't help it, gentlemen."

"What time do the _cars_ come along?" eagerly inquires Jones.

"About nine o'clock," coolly replies the host.

"Nine fools!" shouted the discomfited alderman. "But this won't do;
come, Jones, no help for it--can't fool us in that way--eight miles to
the City Hall--two hours to do it in; off coat and _let's foot it!_"

       *       *       *       *       *

The City Hall clock had just struck 7 P. M., the Tea Room was lighted up,
the assembled wisdom of the municipal government had their toadies, and
reporters and lookers-on were there; the room was quite full. Brown was
there, in the best of spirits, and the locos all fairly snorted with
glee at the scientific manner in which Brown had "done" Jones and Hall
out of their votes! The business of the evening was climaxing: the whigs
missing two of their number, were in quite a spasm of doubt and fear.
The chairman called the meeting to order. The roll was called: seven
"good and true" locos answered the call. Six whigs had answered: the
seventh was being called: the locos were grinning, and twisting their
fingers at the apex of their noses!

"Alderman Jones! Alderman Jones!" bawled the roll-caller.

"Here!" roared the missing individual, bursting into the room.

"Alderman Hall!" continued the roll.

"Here!" responded that notable worthy, rushing in, entirely blowed out.

"Beat, by thunder!" roared the locos, in grand chorus; and in the modern
classics of the Bowery, "they wasn't any thing else." The whigs not only
had the cut but the entire _deal_ in the appointments that time, and
Alderman Brown had a _bill_ at Harlem, a little more serious to foot
than the racing of the aldermen to get a chance to vote.




Getting Square.


It seems to be just as natural for a subordinate in a "grocery" to levy
upon the _till_, for material aid to his own pocket, as for the sparks
to fly upwards or water run down hill. Innumerable stories are told of
the peculations of these "light-fingered gentry," but one of the best of
the boodle is a story we are now about to dress up and trot out, for
your diversion.

A tavern-keeper in this city, some years ago, advertised for a
bar-keeper, "a young man from the country preferred!" Among the several
applicants who exhibited themselves "for the vacancy," was a decent,
harmless-looking youth whose general _contour_ at once struck the
tavern-keeper with most favorable impressions.

"So you wish to try your hand tending bar?"

"Yes, sir," said he.

"Have you ever tended bar?"

"No, sir; but I do not doubt my ability to learn."

"Yes, yes, you can learn fast enough," says the tavern-keeper. "In fact,
I'm glad you are green at the business, you will suit me the better; the
last fellow I had come to me recommended as one of the best bar-keepers
in New Orleans; he was posted up in all the fancy drinks and fancy
names, he wore fancy clothes and had a fancy dog, and I fancied pretty
soon that the rascal had taken a fancy to my small change, so I
discharged him in double quick time."

"Served him right, sir," said the new applicant.

"Of course I did. Well now, sir, I'll engage you; you can get the 'run'
of things in a few weeks. I will give you twenty-five dollars a month,
first month, and thirty dollars a month for the balance of the year."

"I'll accept it, sir," says the youth.

"Do you think it's enough?"

"O, yes, indeed, sir!"

"Well," says Boniface. "Now mark me, young man, I will pay you,
punctually, but you mustn't pay yourself extra wages!"

"Pay myself?" says the unsophisticated youth.

"Musn't take 'the run' of the till!"

"Run of the till?"

"No knocking down, sir!"

"O, bless you!" quoth the verdant youth, "I am as good-natured as a
lamb; I never knocked any body down in all my life."

"Ha! ha!" ejaculated the landlord; "he _is_ green, so I won't teach him
what he don't know. What's your name?"

"Absalom Hart, sir."

"Good Christian-like name, and I've no doubt we shall agree together,
for a long time; so go to work."

Absalom "pitched in," a whole year passed, Absalom and the landlord got
along slick as a whistle. Another year, two, three, four; never was
there a more attentive, diligent and industrious bar-keeper behind a
marble slab, or armed with a toddy stick. He was the _ne plus ultra_ of
bar-keepers, a perfect paragon of toddy mixers. But one day, somehow or
other, the landlord found himself in custody of the sheriff, bag and
baggage. Business had not fallen off, every thing seemed properly
managed, but, somehow or other, the landlord broke, failed, caved in,
and the sheriff sold him out.

Who bought the concern? Absalom Hart--nobody else. Some of the people
were astonished.

"Well, who would have thought it?"

"Hurrah for Absalom!"

"By George, that was quick work!" were the remarks of the outsiders,
when the fact of the sale and purchase became known. The landlord felt
quite humbled, he was out of house and home, but he had a friend,
surely.

"Mr. Hart, things work queer in this world, sometimes."

"Think so?" quietly responded the new landlord.

"I do, indeed; yesterday I was up, and to-day I am down."

"Very true, sir."

"Yesterday you were down, to-day you are up."

"Very true; time works wonders, Mr. Smith."

"It does indeed, sir. Now, Mr. Hart, I am out of employment--got my
family to support; I always trusted I treated you like a man, didn't I?"

"A--ye-e-s, you did, I believe."

"Now, I want you to employ me; I have a number of friends who of course
will patronize our house while I am in it, and you can afford me a fair
sort of a living to help you."

"Well, Mr. Smith," said Mr. Hart, "I suppose I shall have to hire
somebody, and as I don't believe in taking a raw hand from the country,
I will take one who understands all about it. I'll engage you; so go to
work."

"Thank you, Mr. Hart." And so the master became the man, and the man the
master.

"Poor Smith, he's down!" cries one old habitue of the 'General
Washington' bar-room. "I carkelated he'd gin out afore long, if he let
other people 'tend to his business instead of himself."

"I didn't like that fellow Absalom, no how," says another old head;
"he's 'bout skin'd Smith."

"Well, Smith kin be savin', he's larnt something," says a third, "and
oughter try to get on to his pegs again."

But when Absalom gave his "free blow," these fellows all "went in,"
partook of the landlord's hospitality, and hoped--of course they
did--that he might live several thousand years, and make a fortune!

Time slid on--Smith was attentive, no bar-keeper more assiduous and
devoted to the toddy affairs of the house, than Jerry Smith, the
pseudo-bar-keeper of Absalom Hart. Absalom being landlord of a popular
drinking establishment, was surrounded by politicians, horse jockies,
and various otherwise complexioned, fancy living personages. Ergo,
Absalom began to lay off and enjoy himself; he had his horses, dogs, and
other pastimes; got married, and cut it very "fat." One day he got
involved for a friend, got into unnecessary expenses, was sued for
complicated debts, and so entangled with adverse circumstances, that at
the end of his third year as landlord, the sheriff came in, and the
"General Washington" again came under the hammer.

Now, who will become purchaser? Every body wondered who would become the
next customer.

"I will, by George!" says Smith. And Smith did; he had worked long and
_faith_fully, and he had saved something. Smith bought out the whole
concern, and once more he was landlord of the "General Washington."

Absalom was cut down, like a hollyhock in November--he was dead broke,
and felt, in his present situation, flat, stale, and unprofitable
enough.

"Mr. Smith," said Absalom, the day after the collapse, "I am once more
on my oars."

"Yes, Ab, so it seems; it's a queer world, sometimes we are up, and
sometimes we are down. Time, Ab, works wonders, as you once very
forcibly remarked."

"It does, indeed, sir."

"We have only to keep up our spirits, Ab, go ahead; the world is large,
if it is full of changes."

"True, sir, very true. I was about to remark, Mr. Smith--"

"Well, Ab."

"That we have known one another--"

"Pretty well, I think!"

"A long time, sir--"

"Yes, Ab."

"And when I was up and you down--"

"Yes, go on."

"I gave you a chance to keep your head above water."

"True enough, Ab, my boy."

"Now, sir, I want you to give me charge of the bar again, and I'll off
coat and go to work like a Trojan."

"Ab Hart," said Smith, "when you came to me, you was so green you could
hardly tell a crossed quarter from a bogus pistareen--the 'run of the
till' you learnt in a week, while in less than a month you was the best
hand at 'knocking down' I ever met! There's fifty dollars, you and I are
square; we will keep so--go!"

Poor Absalom was beat at his own game, and soon left for parts unknown.




People Do Differ!


Fifty years ago, Uncle Sam was almost a stranger on the maps; he hadn't
a friend in the world, apparently, while he had more enemies than he
could shake a stick at. Every body snubbed him, and every body wanted to
lick him. But Sam has now grown to be a crowder; his spunk, too, goes up
with his resources, and he don't wait for any body to "knock the chip
off his hat," but goes right smack up to a crowd of fighting bullies,
and rolling up his sleeves, he coolly "wants to know" if any body had
any thing to say about him, in that crowd! Uncle Sam is no longer "a
baby," his _physique_ has grown to be quite enormous, and we rather
expect the old fellow will have to have a pitched battle with some body
soon, _or he'll spile!_




Bill Whiffletree's Dental Experience.


Have you ever had the tooth-ache? If not, then blessed is your
ignorance, for it is indeed bliss to know nothing about the tooth-ache,
as you know nothing, absolutely nothing about pain--the acute,
double-distilled, rectified agony that lurks about the roots or fangs of
a treacherous tooth. But ask a sufferer how it feels, what it is like,
how it operates, and you may learn something theoretically which you may
pray heaven that you may not know practically.

But there's poor William Whiffletree--he's been through the mill,
fought, bled, and died (slightly) with the refined, essential oil of the
agony caused by a raging tooth. Every time we read _Othello_, we are
half inclined to think that _more_ than half of Iago's devilishness came
from that "raging tooth," which would not let him sleep, but tortured
and tormented "mine ancient" so that he became embittered against all
the world, and blackamoors in particular.

William Whiffletree's case is a very strong illustration of what
tooth-ache is, and what it causes people to do; and affords a pretty
fair idea of the manner in which the tooth and sufferer are medicinally
and morally treated by the _materia medica_, and friends at large.

William Whiffletree--or "Bill," as most people called him--was a sturdy
young fellow of two-and-twenty, of "poor but respectable parents," and
'tended the dry-goods store of one Ethan Rakestraw, in the village of
Rockbottom, State of New York.

One unfortunate day, for poor Bill, there came to Rockbottom a
galvanized-looking individual, rejoicing in the euphonium of Dr.
Hannibal Orestes Wangbanger. As a surgeon, he had--according to the
album-full of _certificates_--operated in all the scientific branches of
amputation, from the scalp-lock to the heel-tap, upon Emperors, Kings,
Queens, and common folks; but upon his science in the dental way, he
spread and grew luminous! In short, Dr. Wangbanger had not been long in
Rockbottom before his "gift of gab," and unadulterated propensity to
elongate the blanket, set every body, including poor Bill Whiffletree,
in a furor to have their teeth cut, filed, scraped, rasped, reset, dug
out, and burnished up!

Now Bill, being, as we aforestated, a muscularly-developed youth, got up
in the most sturdy New Hampshire style, _his_ teeth _were_ teeth, in
every way calculated to perform long and strong; but Bill was fast
imbibing counter-jumper notions, dabbling in stiff dickeys, greased
soap-locks, and other fancy "flab-dabs," supposed to be essential in
cutting a swarth among ye fair sex.

So that when Dr. Wangbanger once had an audience with Mr. William
Whiffletree in regard to one of Mr. Whiffletree's molars which Bill
thought had a "speck" on it, he soon convinced the victim that the said
molar not only was specked, but out of the dead plumb of its nearest
neighbor at least the 84th part of an inch!

"O, shocking!" says the remorseless _hum_; "it is well I saw it in time,
Mr. Whiffletree. Why, in the course of a few weeks, that tooth, sir,
would have exfoliated, calcareous supperation would have ensued, the gum
would have ossified, while the nerve of the tooth becoming
apostrophized, the roots would have concatenated in their hiatuses, and
the jaw-bone, no longer acting upon their fossil exoduses, would
necessarily have led to the entire suspension of the capillary organs of
your stomach and brain, and--_death would supervene in two hours!_"

Poor Bill! he scarcely knew what fainting was, but a queer sensation
settled in his "ossis frontis," while his ossis legso almost bent double
under him, at the awful prospect of things before him! He took a long
breath, however, and in a voice tremulous with emotion, inquired--

"Good Lord, Doctor! what's to be done for a feller?"

"Plug and file," calmly said the Doctor.

"Plug and file what?"

"The second molar," said the Doctor; though the treacherous monster
_meant_ Bill's wallet, of course!

"What'll it cost, Doctor?" says Bill.

"Done in my very best manner, upon the new and splendid system invented
by myself, sir, and practiced upon all the crowned heads of Europe,
London, and Washington City, it will cost you three dollars."

"Does it hurt much, Doctor?" was Bill's cautious inquiry.

"Very little, indeed; it's sometimes rather agreeable, sir, than
otherwise," said the Doctor.

"Then go at it, Doctor! Here's the _dosh_," and forking over three
dollars, down sits William Whiffletree in a high-backed chair, and the
Doctor's assistant--a sturdy young Irishman--clamping Bill's head to the
back of the chair, to keep it steady, as the Doctor remarked, the latter
began to "bore and file."

"O! ah! ho-ho-hold on, _hold on!_" cries Bill, at the first _gouge_ the
Doctor gave the huge tooth.

"O! be me soul! be aizy, zur," says the Irishman, "it's mesilf as
untherstands it--_I'll howld on till yees!_"

"O--O-h-h-h!" roars Bill, as the Doctor proceeds.

"Be quiet, sir; the pain won't signify!" says the Doctor.

"Go-goo-good Lord-d-d! Ho-ho-hol-hold on!"

"O, yeez needn't be afeared of that--I'm howldin' yeez tight as a
divil!" cries Paddy, and sure enough he _was_ holding, for in vain Bill
screwed and twisted and squirmed around; Pat held him like a
cider-press.

"Let me--me--O--O--O! Everlasting creation! let me go-o-o--stop, _hold
on-n-n!_" as the Doctor bored, screwed, and plugged away at the tooth.

"All done, sir; let the patient up, Michael," says the Doctor, with a
confident twirl of his perfumed handkerchief. "There, sir--there was
science, art, elegance, and dispatch! Now, sir, your tooth is safe--your
life is safe--_you're a sound man!_"

"Sound?" echoes poor Bill, "sound? Why, you've broken my jaw into
flinders; you've set all my teeth on edge; and I've no more
feelin'--gall darn ye!--in my jaws, than if they were iron steel-traps!
You've got the wuth of your money out of my mouth, and I'm off!"

That night was one of anxiety and misery to William Whiffletree. The
disturbed _molar_ growled and twitched like mad; and, by daylight, poor
Bill's cheek was swollen up equal to a printer's buff-ball, his mouth
puckered, and his right eye half "bunged up."

"Why, William," says Ethan Rakestraw, as Bill went into the store, "what
in grace ails thy face? Thee looks like an owl in an ivy-bush!"

"Been plugged and filed," says Bill, looking cross as a meat-axe at his
snickering Orthodox boss.

"Plugged and _fined_? Thee hain't been fighting, William?"

"Fined? No, I ain't been _fined_ or fighting, Mr. Rakestraw, but I bet I
do fight that feller who gave me the tooth-ache!--O! O!" moaned poor
Bill, as he clamped his swollen jaw with his hand, and went around
waving his head like a plaster-of-paris mandarin.

"O! thee's been to the dentist, eh? Got the tooth-ache? Go thee to my
wife; she'll cure thee in one minute, William; a little laudanum and
cotton will soon ease thy pain."

Mrs. Rakestraw applied the laudanum to Bill's molar, but as it did no
kind of good, old grandmother proposed a poultice; and soon poor Bill's
head and cheek were done up in mush, while he groaned and grunted and
started for the store, every body gaping at his swollen countenance as
though he was a rare curiosity.

"Halloo, Bill!" says old Firelock, the gunsmith, as Bill was going by
his shop; "got a bag in your calabash, or got the tooth-ache?"

Bill looked daggers at old Firelock, and by a nod of his head intimated
the cause of his distress.

"O, that all? Come in; I'll stop it in a minute and a half; sit down,
I'll fix it--I've cured hundreds," says Firelock.

"What are you--O-h-h, dear! what are you going to do?" says Bill, eyeing
the wire, and lamp in which Firelock was heating the wire.

"Burn out the marrow of the tooth--'twill never trouble you again--I've
cured hundreds that way! Don't be afeared--you won't feel it but a
moment. Sit still, keep cool!" says Firelock.

"Cool?" with a hot wire in his tooth! But Bill, being already intensely
crucified, and assured of Firelock's skill, took his head out of the
mush-plaster, opened his jaws, and Firelock, admonishing him to "keep
cool," crowded the hot, sizzling wire on to the tin foil jammed into the
hollow by Wangbanger, and gave it a twist clear through the melted tin
to the exposed nerve. Bill jumped, bit off the wire, burnt his tongue,
and knocked Firelock nearly through the partition of his shop; and so
frightened Monsieur Savon, the little barber next door, that he rushed
out into the street, crying--

"Mon Dieu! mon Dieu! Ze zundair strike my shop!"

Bill was stone dead--Firelock crippled. The apothecary over the way came
in, picked up poor Bill, applied some camphor to his nose, and brought
him back to life, and--the pangs of tooth-ache!

"Kreasote!" says Squills, the 'pothecary. "I'll ease your pain, Mr.
Whiffletree, in a second!"

Poor Bill gave up--the kreasote added a fresh invoice to his
misery--burnt his already lacerated and roasted tongue--and he yelled
right out.

"Death and glory! O-h-h-h-h, murder! You've pizened me!"

"Put a hot brick to that young man's face," said a stranger; "'twill
take out the pain and swelling in three minutes!"

Bill revived; he seemed pleased at the stranger's suggestion; the Brick
was applied; but Bill's cheek being now half raw with the various
messes, it made him yell when the brick touched him!

He cleared for home, went to bed, and the excessive pain, finally, with
laudanum, kreasote, fire, and hot bricks, put him to sleep.

He awoke at midnight, in a frightful state of misery; walked the floor
until daylight; was tempted two or three times to jump out the window or
crawl up the chimney!

Until noon next day he suffered, trying in vain, every ten minutes, some
"known cure," oils, acids, steam, poultices, and the ten thousand
applications usually tried to cure a raging tooth.

Desperation made Bill revengeful. He got a club and went after Dr.
Wangbanger, who had set all the village in a rage of tooth-ache. Ten or
a dozen of his victims were at his door, awaiting ferociously their
turns to be revenged.

But the bird had flown; the _teuth-doctor_ had sloped; yet a good
Samaritan came to poor Bill, and whispering in his ear, Bill started for
Monsieur Savon's barber-shop, took a seat, shut his eyes, and said his
prayers. The little Frenchman took a keen knife and pair of pincers, and
Bill giving one awful yell, the tooth was out, and his pains and perils
at an end!




A-a-a-in't they Thick?


During the "great excitement" in Boston, relative to the fugitive slave
"fizzle," a good-natured country gentleman, by the name of Abner Phipps;
an humble artisan in the fashioning of buckets, wash-tubs and
wooden-ware generally, from one of the remote towns of the good old Bay
State, paid his annual visit to the metropolis of Yankee land. In the
multifarious operations of his shop and business, Abner had but little
time, and as little inclination, to keep the run of _latest news_, as
set forth glaringly, every day, under the caption of _Telegraphic
Dispatches_, in the papers; hence, it requires but a slight extension of
the imagination to apprise you, "dear reader," that our friend Phipps
was but meagerly "posted up" in what was going on in this great country,
half of his time. I must do friend Phipps the favor to say, that he was
not ignorant of the fact that "Old Hickory" fout well down to New
Orleans, and that "Old Zack" flaxed the Mexicans clean out of their
boots in Mexico; likewise that Millerism was a humbug, and money was
pretty generally considered a cash article all over the universal world.

But what did Phipps know or care about the Fugitive Slave bill? Not a
red cent's worth, no more than he did of the equitation of the earth,
the Wilmot proviso, or Barnum's woolly horse--not a _red_. He came to
Boston annually to see how things were a workin'; pleasure, not
business. The very first morning of his arrival in town, the hue and cry
of "slave hunters," was raised--Shadrack, the fugitive, was arrested at
his vocation--table servant at Taft's eating establishment, Corn Hill,
where Abner Phipps accidentally had stuck his boots under the
mahogany, for the purpose of recuperating his somewhat exhausted
inner-man. Abner saw the arrest, he was quietly discussing his
_tapioca_, and if thinking at all, was merely calculating what the
profits were, upon a two-and-sixpence dinner, at a Boston
_restaurateur_. He saw there was a muss between the black waiter and two
red-nosed white men, but as he did not know what it was all about, he
didn't care; it was none of his business; and being a part of his
religion, not to meddle with that that did not concern him, he continued
his _tapioca_ to the bottom of his plate, then forked over the
equivalent and stepped out.

As Phipps turned into Court square, it occurred, slightly, that the
<DW65>s had got to be rather thick in Boston, to what they used to be;
and bending his footsteps down Brattle street, once or twice it occurred
to him that the <DW65>s _had_ got to be thick--darn'd thick, for they
passed and repassed him--walked before him and behind him, and in fact
all around him.

"Yes," says Phipps, "the <DW65>s are thick, thundering thick--never saw
'em so thick in my life. _Ain't they thick?_" he soliloquized, and as he
continued his stroll in the purlieus of "slightly soiled" garments,
vulgarly known as second-hand shops, mostly proprietorized by very
dignified and respectable _col'ud pussons_, it again struck Phipps quite
forcibly that the <DW65>s were _a_ getting thick.

"Godfree! but ain't they thick! I hope to be stabbed with a gridiron,"
said Phipps, "if there ain't more _niggers_--look at 'em--more <DW65>s
than would patch and grade the infernal regions eleven miles! Guess I've
enough <DW65>s for a spell," continued Phipps, "so I'll just pop in
here, and see how this feller sells his notions." And so Abner, having
reached Dock square, saunters into a gun, pistol, bowie, jack-knife,
dog-collar, shot-bag, and notion-shop in general. Unlucky step.

The stiff-dickied, frizzle-headed, polished and perfumed shop-keeper was
on hand, and particularly predisposed to sell the stranger something.
Just then a <DW65> passed the door, and looked in very sharply at
Phipps, and presently two more passed, then a fourth and fifth, all
_looking_ more or less pointedly at the manufacturer of wooden doin's,
and white-pine fixin's.

"That's a neat _collar_," says the shop-keeper, as Phipps, sort of
miscellaneously, placed his hand upon a brass-band, red-lined
dog-collar.

"Collar! don't call that a _collar_, do you?"

"I do, sir, a beautiful collar, sir."

"What for, _solgers_?" asks Phipps.

"Soldiers, no, dogs," says the shop-keeper, puckering his mouth as
though he had _sampled_ a lemon.

"_O!_" says Phipps, suddenly realizing the fact. "I ain't got no dogs;
bad stock; don't pay; tax 'em up where I live; wouldn't pay tax for
forty dogs." More <DW65>s passed, repassed, and looked in at Phipps and
the storekeeper.

"I say, ain't the <DW65>s got to be thick--infernal thick, in your town
lately?"

"Well, I don't know that they are," replied the shop-keeper; "getting
rather scarce, I think, since the Fugitive bill has been put in force
over the country, sir, but it does appear to me," said the shop-keeper,
twiging sundry and suspicious-looking col'ud gem'en passing by his
store, gaping in rather wistfully at the door, and peeping through the
sash of the windows--"it does appear to me, that a good many <DW52>
persons are about this morning; yes, there is, why there goes more, more
yet; bless me, there's another, two, three, four, why a dozen has just
passed; they seem to look in here rather curiously, I wonder--only look;
what has stirred them up, I want to know!" the fluctuation of the
_Congo_ market completely attracted the handsome man's attention;
his surprise finally assumed the most tangible shape and complexion of
fear, for the <DW65>s, one and all, looked savage as meat-axes, and
began to get too numerous to mention.

[Illustration: "What dat! got pistils in your pocket, eh?" says one of
two big buck <DW65>s, shying up alongside of the new velocipeding
up-country artisan. "What dat! got de hand-cuffs in he
pocket!"--_Page_ 99.]

"Well, guess I'll be goin'," says Phipps, after fumbling over some of
the shooting-irons, jack-knives, etc.; reaching the street, he was more
fully impressed with the fixed fact, that the <DW65>s were all sorts of
thick. They fairly crowded him; one buck darkey rubbed slap up against
Phipps, as he moved out of the store. "Look here, Mister," says Phipps,
"ain't all this street big enough for you without a crowdin' me?"

The <DW65> stopped, looked arsenic and chain lightning at Phipps, and
then moved off, saying in a sort of undertone--

"Gorra, I guess you'll be crowded a wus'n dat afore dis day is ober."

"Will, eh?" responded Abner Phipps, slightly mystified as to the why and
wherefore, that _he_ should, in particular, be "crowded," especially by
an Ethiopic gentleman.

"I guess I _won't_ then," resumed Phipps; "if any body ventures to crowd
me, just a purpose, I guess I'll be darn'd apt, and mighty quick to
squash in their heads, or whoop'm on the spot."

"What dat? got pistils in your pocket, eh?" says one of the two big buck
<DW65>s, shying up alongside of the now velocipeding up-country artisan.
Phipps looked back, the <DW64>s were following him. "Pistils? who's
talkin' about pistils, mister?" he ventured to ask.

"Dat's him, watch'm."

"Why, we see'd you goin' in dar, dat pistol shop; want to lay in a stock
of dirks and pistils, eh?" says the <DW64>.

"You--you got any hand-cuffs in you' pocket?" inquired another.

"What dat? got de hand-cuffs in he pocket?"

"Pistils and bowie knibes!" says a third.

"Dat's him! watch'm!"

"Knock'm down, put dat white hat ober his eyes! Hoo-r-r!"

The <DW64>s now fairly beset our victimized friend Phipps; he stopped,
buttoned his coat, the <DW64>s augmented; glared at him like demons; he
fixed his hat firmly upon his head; the <DW64>s began to grin and move
upon him; he spat upon his hands; the <DW64>s began to yell, and to
close in upon him; with one grand effort, one mighty gathering of all
the human faculties called into action by fear and desperation, Phipps
bounded like a Louisiana bull at a gate post; he knocked down two,
_square_; kicked over four, and rushing through the now very
considerable and formidable array of ebony, he _broke_ equal to a wild
turkey through a corn bottom, or a sharp knife through a pound of milky
butter; and it is very questionable whether Phipps ever stopped running
until his boots _busted_, or he reached his bucket factory on Taunton
river. His <DW64> deputation _waited on him_ with a rush clear outside of
town, where the speed and bottom of Abner distanced the entire
committee. The key to this joke is: Phipps was dogged from Tafts'--by
the "vigilant committee," as an informer, or slave-hunter at least, and
hence the delicate attentions of the col'ud pop'lation paid him. I have
no doubt, that if Abner Phipps be asked, how things look around Boston,
he would observe with some energy,

"<DW65>s--<DW65>s are thick--Godfree! _a-a-a-in't they thick!_"




A Desperate Race.


Some years ago, I was one of a convivial party, that met in the
principal hotel in the town of Columbus, Ohio, the seat of government of
the Buckeye State.

It was a winter evening when all without was bleak and stormy, and all
within were blythe and gay; when song and story made the circuit of the
festive board, filling up the chasms of life with mirth and laughter.

We had met for the express purpose of making a night of it, and the
pious intention was duly and most religiously carried out. The
Legislature was in session in that town, and not a few of the worthy
legislators were present upon this occasion.

One of these worthies I will name, as he not only took a big swath in
the evening's entertainment, but he was a man _more_ generally known
than our worthy President, James K. Polk. That man was the famous
Captain Riley! whose "narrative" of suffering and adventures is pretty
generally known, all over the civilized world. Captain Riley was a fine,
fat, good-humored joker, who at the period of my story was the
representative of the Dayton district, and lived near that little city
when at home. Well, Captain Riley had amused the company with many of
his far-famed and singular adventures, which being mostly told before
and read by millions of people, that have ever seen his book, I will not
attempt to repeat them.

Many were the stories and adventures told by the company, when it came
to the turn of a well known gentleman who represented the Cincinnati
district. As Mr. ---- is yet among the living, and perhaps not disposed
to be the subject of joke or story, I do not feel at liberty to give
his name. Mr. ---- was a slow believer of other men's adventures, and at
the same time much disposed to magnify himself into a marvellous hero
whenever the opportunity offered. As Captain Riley wound up one of his
truthful, though really marvellous adventures, Mr. ---- coolly remarked,
that the captain's story was all very _well_, but it did not begin to
compare with an adventure that he had "once upon a time" on the Ohio,
below the present city of Cincinnati.

"Let's have it!" "Let's have it!" resounded from all hands.

"Well, gentlemen," said the Senator, clearing his voice for action and
knocking the ashes from his cigar against the arm of his chair.
"Gentlemen, I am not in the habit of spinning yarns of marvellous or
fictitious matters; and therefore it is scarcely necessary to affirm
upon the responsibility of my reputation, gentlemen, that what I am
about to tell you, I most solemnly proclaim to be truth, and--"

"Oh! never mind that, go on, Mr. ----," chimed the party.

"Well, gentlemen, in 18-- I came down the Ohio river, and settled at
Losanti, now called Cincinnati. It was, at that time, but a little
settlement of some twenty or thirty log and frame cabins, and where now
stands the Broadway Hotel and blocks of stores and dwelling houses, was
the cottage and corn patch of old Mr. ----, a tailor, who, by the by,
bought that land for the making of a coat for one of the settlers. Well,
I put up my cabin, with the aid of my neighbors, and put in a patch of
corn and potatoes, about where the Fly Market now stands, and set about
improving my lot, house, &c.

"Occasionally, I took up my rifle, and started off with my dog down the
river, to look up a little deer, or _bar_ meat, then very plenty along
the river. The blasted red skins were lurking about, and hovering
around the settlement, and every once in a while picked off some of our
neighbors, or stole our cattle or horses. I hated the red demons, and
made no bones of peppering the blasted sarpents whenever I got a sight
at them. In fact, the red rascals had a dread of me, and had laid a
great many traps to get my scalp, but I wasn't to be catch'd napping.
No, no, gentlemen, I was too well up to 'em for that.

"Well, I started off one morning, pretty early, to take a hunt, and
travelled a long way down the river, over the bottoms and hills, but
couldn't find no _bar_ nor deer. About four o'clock in the afternoon, I
made tracks for the settlement again. By and by, I sees a buck just
ahead of me, walking leisurely down the river. I slipped up, with my
faithful old dog close in my rear, to within clever shooting distance,
and just as the buck stuck his nose in the drink, I drew a _bead_ upon
his top-knot and over he tumbled, and splurged and bounded awhile, when
I came up and relieved him by cutting his wizen--"

"Well, but what had that to do with an _adventure_?" said Riley.

"Hold on a bit, if you please, gentlemen--by Jove it had a great deal to
do with it. For while I was busy skinning the hind quarters of the buck,
and stowing away the kidney-fat in my hunting shirt, I heard a noise
like the breaking of brush under a moccasin up 'the bottom.' My dog
heard it and started up to reconnoitre, and I lost no time in reloading
my rifle. I had hardly got my priming out before my dog raised a howl
and broke through the brush towards me with his tail down, as he was not
used to doing unless there were wolves, painters (panthers) or Injins
about.

"I picked up my knife, and took up my line of march in a skulking trot
up the river. The frequent gullies, on the lower bank, made it tedious
travelling there, so I scrabbled up to the upper bank, which was pretty
well covered with buckeye and sycamore and very little under-brush. One
peep below discovered to me three as big and strapping red rascals,
gentlemen, as you ever clapt your eyes on! Yes, there they came, not
above six hundred yards in my rear. Shouting and yelling like hounds,
and coming after me like all possessed."

"Well," said an old woodsman sitting at the table, "you took a tree of
course?"

"Did I? No, gentlemen! I took no tree just then, but I took to my heels
like sixty, and it was just as much as my old dog could do to keep up
with me. I run until the whoops of my red skins grew fainter and fainter
behind me; and clean out of wind, I ventured to look behind me, and
there came one single red whelp, puffing and blowing, not three hundred
yards in my rear. He had got on to a piece of bottom where the trees
were small and scarce--now, thinks I, old fellow, I'll have you. So I
trotted off at a pace sufficient to let my follower gain on me, and when
he had got just about near enough, I wheeled and fired, and down I
brought him, dead as a door nail, at a hundred and twenty yards!"

"Then you skelp'd (scalped) him immediately?" said the backwoodsman.

"Very clear of it, gentlemen, for by the time I got my rifle loaded,
here came the other two red skins, shouting and whooping close on me,
and away I broke again like a quarter horse. I was now about five miles
from the settlement, and it was getting towards sunset; I ran till my
wind began to be pretty short, when I took a look back and there they
came snorting like mad buffaloes, one about two or three hundred yards
ahead of the other, so I acted possum again until the foremost Injin got
pretty well up, and I wheeled and fired at the very moment he was
'drawing a _bead_' on me; he fell head over stomach into the dirt, and
up came the last one!"

"So you laid for him and--" gasped several.

"No," continued the "member," "I didn't lay for him, I hadn't time to
load, so I layed _legs_ to ground, and started again. I heard every
bound he made after me. I ran and ran, until the fire flew out of my
eyes, and the old dog's tongue hung out of his mouth a quarter of a yard
long!"

"Phe-e-e-e-w!" whistled somebody.

"Fact! gentlemen. Well, what I was to do I didn't know--rifle empty, no
big trees about, and a murdering red Indian not three hundred yards in
my rear; and, what was worse, just then it occurred to me that I was not
a great ways from a big creek, (now called Mill Creek,) and there I
should be pinned at last.

"Just at this juncture I struck my toe against a root, and down I
tumbled, and my old dog over me. Before I could scrabble up--"

"The Indian fired!" gasped the old woodsman.

"He did, gentlemen, and I felt the ball strike me under the shoulder;
but that didn't seem to put any embargo upon my locomotion, for as soon
as I got up I took off again, quite freshened by my fall! I heard the
red skin close behind me coming booming on, and every minute I expected
to have his tomahawk dashed into my head or shoulders.

"Something kind of cool began to trickle down my legs into my boots--"

"Blood, eh? for the shot the varmint gin you," said the old woodsman, in
a great state of excitement.

"I thought so," said the Senator, "but what do you think it was?"

Not being blood, we were all puzzled to know what the blazes it could
be. When Riley observed--

"I suppose you had--"

"Melted the deer fat which I had stuck in the breast of my hunting
shirt, and the grease was running down my legs until my feet got so
greasy that my heavy boots flew off, and one hitting the dog, nearly
knocked his brains out."

We all grinned, which the "member" noticing, observed--

"I hope, gentlemen, no man here will presume to think I'm exaggerating?"

"O, certainly not! Go on, Mr. ----," we all chimed in.

"Well, the ground under my feet was soft, and being relieved of my heavy
boots, I put off with double quick time, and seeing the creek about half
a mile off, I ventured to look over my shoulder to see what kind of a
chance there was to hold up and load. The red skin was coming jogging
along pretty well blowed out, about five hundred yards in the rear.
Thinks I, here goes to load any how. So at it I went--in went the
powder, and putting on my patch, down went the ball about half-way, and
off snapped my ramrod!"

"Thunder and lightning!" shouted the old woodsman, who was worked up to
the top-notch in the "member's" story.

"Good gracious! wasn't I in a pickle! There was the red whelp within two
hundred yards of me, pacing along and _loading up his rifle as he came!_
I jerked out the broken ramrod, dashed it away and started on, priming
up as I cantered off, determined to turn and give the red skin a blast
any how, as soon as I reached the creek.

"I was now within a hundred yards of the creek, could see the smoke from
the settlement chimneys; a few more jumps and I was by the creek. The
Indian was close upon me--he gave a whoop, and I raised my rifle; on he
came, knowing that I had broken my ramrod and my load not down; another
whoop! whoop! and he was within fifty yards of me! I pulled trigger,
and--"

"And killed _him_?" chuckled Riley.

"No, _sir!_ I missed fire!"

"And the red skin--" shouted the old woodsman in a phrenzy of
excitement--

"_Fired and killed me!_"

The screams and shouts that followed this finale brought landlord Noble,
servants and hostlers, running up stairs to see if the house was on
fire!




Dodging the Responsibility.


"Sir!" said Fieryfaces, the lawyer, to an _unwilling witness_, "Sir! do
you say, upon your oath, that Blinkins is a dishonest _man_?"

"I didn't say he was ever accused of being an honest man, did I?"
replied Pipkins.

"Does the court understand you to say, Mr. Pipkins, that the plaintiff's
reputation is bad?" inquired the judge, merely putting the question to
keep his eyes open.

"I didn't say it was good, I reckon."

"Sir!" said Fieryfaces, "Sir-r! upon your oath--mind, upon your oath,
upon your oath, you say that Blinkins is a rogue, a villain and a
thief!"

"_You_ say so," was Pip's reply.

"Haven't _you_ said so?"

"Why, you've said it," said Pipkins, "what's the use of my repeating
it?"

"Sir-r!" thundered Fieryfaces, the Demosthenean thunderer of Thumbtown,
"Sir-r! I charge you, upon your sworn oath, do you or do you not
say--Blinkins stole things?"

"No, _sir_," was the cautious reply of Pipkins. "I never said Blinkins
stole things, but I _do_ say--_he's got a way of finding things that
nobody lost!_"

"Sir-r," said Fieryfaces, "you can retire," and the court adjourned.




A Night Adventure in Prairie Land.


"I'll take a circuit around, and come out about the lower end of your
_mot_,"* said I to my companion. "You remain here; lie down flat, and
I'll warrant the old doe and her fawns will be found retracing their
steps."

    [*] _Mot_ is the name given small clumps of trees or woods, found
    scattered over the prairie land of Texas.

We had started from camp about sunrise, to hunt, three of us; one, an
old hunter, who, after marking out our course, giving us the lay of the
land, and various admonitions as to the danger of getting too far from
camp, looking out for "Injin signs," &c., "Old Traps," as we called him,
took a tour southward, and left us. Myself and companion were each armed
with rifles; his a blunt "Yeager," by the way, and mine an Ohio piece,
carrying about one hundred and twenty balls to the pound, consequently
very light, and not a very sure thing for a distance over one hundred
yards. It was in the fall of the year, delightful weather: our wardrobe
consisted of Kentucky jean trousers, boots, straw hats, two shirts, and
jean hunting shirts--all thin, to be sure, but warm and comfortable
enough for a day's hunt. We trudged about until noon, firing but once,
and then at an alligator in a _bayou_, whose coat of mail laughed to
scorn our puny bullets, and, barely flirting his horny tail in contempt,
he slid from his perch back into the greasy and turbid stream. Seating
ourselves upon a dead cotton-wood, we made a slight repast upon some
cold _pone_, which, moistened with a drop of "Mon'galy," proved, I must
needs confess, upon such occasions, viands as palatable as a Tremont
dinner to a city gourmand. While thus quietly disposed, all of a sudden
we heard a racket in our rear, which, though it startled us at first,
soon apprised us that game was at hand. Dropping low, we soon saw, a few
yards above us, the large antlers of a buck. He darted down the slight
bluffs, followed by a doe and two well-grown fawns.

As they gained the water, and but barely stuck their noses into the
drink, we both let drive at them: but, in my rising upon my knee to fire
at the buck, he got wind of the courtesies I was about to tender him,
and absolutely dodged my ball. I was too close to miss him; but, as he
"juked"--to use an old-fashioned western word--down his head the moment
he saw fire, the bullet merely made the fur fly down his neck, and, with
a back bound or double somerset, he scooted quicker than uncorked
thunder.

Our eyes met--we both grinned.

"Well, by King," says my friend Mat, "that's shooting!"

"Both missed?" says I.

"Better break for camp, straight: if we should meet a greaser or
Camanche here, they'd take our scalps, and beat us about the jaws with
'em!"

It was thought to bear the complexion of a joke, and we both laughed
quite jocosely at it.

"Now," says I, "old Sweetener," loading up my rifle, "you and I can't
give it up so, no how." Tripping up a cup of the alligator fluid, we
washed down our crumbs, and started. We followed the deer about two
miles up the _bayou_; the land was low prairie bottom, ugly for walking,
and our track was slow and tedious. But, approaching a suspicious place
carefully and cautiously, we had another fair view of the doe and fawns,
feeding and watching on the side of a broad prairie. The distance
between us was quite extensive; we could not well approach within
shooting distance without alarming them. The only alternative was for
my friend Mat to deposit himself among the brush and stuff, and let me
circumvent the critters; one of us would surely get a whack at them. I
started; a slow, tedious scratch and crawl of nearly a mile got me to
the windward of the deer. As I edged down along the high grass and
chapperel, about a branch of the _bayou_, the old doe began to raise her
head occasionally, and scent the air: this, as I got still nearer, she
repeated more frequently, until, at length, she took the hint, and made
a break down towards my friend Mat, who, sharp upon the trigger, just as
the three deer got within fifty yards, raised and fired. 'Bout went the
deer, making a dash for my quarters; but before getting any ways near
me, down toppled one of the young 'uns. Mat had fixed its flint; but my
blood was up--I was not to be fooled out of my shot in that way; and
perceiving my only chance, at best, was to be a long shot, off hand, as
the doe and her remaining fawn dashed by, at over eighty yards, I let
her have the best I had; the bullet struck--the old doe jumped, by way
of an extra, about five by thirty feet, and didn't even stop to ask
permission at that. A sportsman undergoes no little excitement in
peppering a few paltry pigeons, a duck or a squirrel, but when an
amateur hunter gets his Ebenezer set on a real deer, bear, or flock of
wild turkeys, you may safely premise it would take some capital to buy
him off.

I forgot all about time and space, Mat, "Old Traps," greasers and
Injins--my whole capital was invested in the old _doe_, and I was after
_her_. She was badly wounded; I thought she'd "gin eout" pretty soon,
and I followed clear across the prairie. Time flew, and finally, feeling
considerably fagged, and getting no further view of my deer, and being
no longer able to trace the red drops she sprinkled along, I sat down,
wiped the salt water from my parboiled countenance, and began to----
think I'd gone far enough for old venison. In fact, I'd gone a little
too far, for the sun was setting down to his home in the Pacific, the
black shades of night began to gather around the timber, and I hurried
out into the prairie, to get an observation. But it was no go. I had
entirely reversed the order of things, in my mind; I had lost my
bearings. The evening was cloudy, with a first rate prospect of a wet
night, and neither moon nor stars were to be seen.

Taking, at a hazard, the supposed back track, across the broad prairie,
upon which flourished a stiff, tall grass, I plodded along, quite
chilly, and my thin garments, wet from perspiration, were cold as cakes
of ice to my flesh. I began to feel mad, swore some, hoped I was on the
right track back to Mat and his deer, but felt satisfied there was some
doubt about that. Mat had the flint and steel for raising a fire, and
the _meat_ and what bread was left at our last repast. Night came right
down in the midst of my cares and tribulations. A slight drizzling rain
began to fall. The stillness of a prairie is a damper to the best of
spirits--the entire suspension of all noises and sounds, not even the
tick of an insect to break the black, dull, dark monotony, is a wet
blanket to cheerfulness. I really think the stillness of a large prairie
is one of the most painful sensations of loneliness, a man ever
encountered. The sombre and dreary monotony of a dungeon, is scarcely a
comparison; in fact, language fails to describe the essentially
double-distilled monotony of these great American grass-patches--you
can't call them deserts, for at times they represent interminable
flower-gardens, of the most elegant and voluptuous description.

Oh, how home and its comforts floated in my mind's eye; how I
envied--not for the first time either--the unthankful inmates of even a
second-rate boarding-house! A <DW64> cabin, a shed, dog kennel, and a hoe
cake, had charms, in my thoughts, just then, enough to exalt them into
fit themes for the poets and painters. Having trudged along, at least
three miles, in one direction, I struck a large _mot_, that jutted out
into the prairie. Here I concluded it was best to hang up for the night.
I was soaking wet--hungry and wolfish enough. My utter desperation
induced me to work for an hour with some percussion caps, powder, and a
piece of greased tow linen, to get a blaze of fire, Ingins or no Ingins.
I began to wish I was a Camanche myself, or that the red devils would
surround me, give me one bite and a drink, and I'd die happy. All of a
sudden, I got sight of a blaze! Yes, a real fire loomed up in the
distance! It was Mat and his deer, in luck, doing well, while I was cold
as Caucasus, and hollow as a flute. I riz, stretched my stiff limbs, and
struck a bee line for the light. After wading, stumbling, and tramping,
until my weary legs would bear me no longer, I had the mortification to
see the fire at as great a distance as when I first started. This about
knocked me. I concluded to give up right in my tracks, and let myself be
wet down into _papier mache_ by the descending elements. Blessed was he
that invented sleep, says Sancho Panza, but he was a better workman that
invented _spunk_. All of a sudden I plucked up my spunk, and by a sort
of martial command, ordered my limbs to duty, and marched straight for
the fire in the weary distance. A steady and toilsome perseverance over
brake and bush, mud, ravine, grass and water, at length brought me near
the fire. And then, suspicion arose, if I fell upon a Mexican or Indian
camp, the evils and perils of the night would turn up in the morning
with a human barbecue, and these impressions were nearly sufficient
inducement for me to go no further. It might be my friend Mat's fire,
and it might not be: it wasn't very likely he would dare to raise a
fire, and the more I debated, the worse complexion things bore.
Involuntarily, however, I edged on up towards the fire, which was going
down apparently. Coming to a _bayou_, I reconnoitered some time. All was
quiet, save the pattering of the rain in the grass, and on the
scattering lofty trees. I stood still and absorbed, watching the dying
fire, for an hour or two. I was within half a mile of it; the intense
darkness that usually precedes day had passed, and a murky, rainy
morning was dawning. Cheerless, fatigued, and hungry beyond all mental
supervision or fear, I marched point blank up to the fire, and there
lay--not a tribe of Mexicans or Camanches, but my comrade Mat, fast
asleep, under the lee of a huge dead and fallen cotton-wood, alongside
of the fire, warm, dry, and comfortable as a bug in a rug!

I gave one shout, that would have riz the scalp lock of any red skin
within ten miles, and Mat started upon his feet and snatched his
"Yeager" from under the log quicker than death.

"Ho-o-o-ld yer hoss, stranger," I yelled, "I'm only going to eat ye!"

Mat and I fraternized, quick and strong. A piece of his fawn was jerked
and roasted in a giffy. After gormandizing about five pounds, and
getting a few whiffs at Mat's old stone pipe, I took his nest under the
log, and slept a few hours sound as a pig of lead.

Waked up, prime--stowed away a few more pounds of the fawn, and then we
started for camp. Living and faring in this manner, for from three to
twelve months, may give you some idea of the training the heroes of San
Jacinto had.




Roosting Out.


In 1837, after the capture of Santa Anna, by General Samuel Houston and
his little Spartan band, which event settled the war, and something like
tranquillity being restored to Texas, several of us adventurers formed a
small hunting party, and took to the woods, in a circuitous tour up and
across the Sabine, and so into the United States, homeward bound.

There were seven men, two black boys, belonging to Dr. Clenen, one of
our "voyageurs," and eleven horses and mules, in the party; and with a
tolerable fair camp equipage, plenty of ammunition, one or two "old
campaigners" and three monstrous clever dogs, it was naturally supposed
we should have a pleasant time. The first five days were cold, being
early Spring, wet, and not _very_ interesting; but as all of the party
had seen some service, and not expecting the comforts and delicacies of
civilization, they were all the better prepared to take things as they
came, and by the smooth handle. The idea was to travel slow, and reach
Jonesboro' or Red River, or keep on the Arkansas, and strike near Fort
Smith, in twenty or thirty days. We left Houston in the morning, passed
Montgomery, and kept on W. by N. between the Rio Brasos and Trinity
River, the first five days, then stood off north for the head of the
Sabine.

Game was very sparse, and rather shy, but falling in with some wild
turkeys, and a bee tree, we laid by two days and lived like fighting
cocks. The turkeys were picked off the tall trees, as they roosted after
night, by rifle shots, and no game I ever fed on can exceed the rich
flavor of a well-roasted, fat wild turkey. The bee tree was a
crowder--a large, hollow cyprus, about sixty feet high, straight as a
barber pole, and nearly seven feet in diameter at the base, and full
three feet through at the first branch, forty feet up. This must have
been the hive of many and many a swarm, for years past; the tree was cut
down, and contained from one to three hundred gallons of honey and comb!
Nor are such bee trees scarce about the head of the Sabine, Red River,
&c. Bears are very fond of honey. The weather then being much improved,
it was suggested that the camp should be moved a few miles off, and
leave the bee tree and its great surplus contents, to the bears; and if
they did come about, we should come back and have a few pops at them.
The plan was feasible, and all agreed; so, removing a few gallons of the
translucent delicacy, the camp was struck, and, following an old trail a
few miles, we found a delightful site for recamping under some large
oaks on a creek, a tributary of the Sabine river.

Some of the "boys," as each styled the others, during the day had found
"a deer lick," about three miles above the camp, and to vary the
_viands_ a little, it was proposed that three of the boys should go up
after dark, lay about, and see if a shot could be had at some of the
visitors of "the lick."

One of the old heads, and by-the-way we called him "old traps," from the
fact of his always being so ready to explain the manner and uses of all
sorts of traps, and the inexhaustible adventures he had with them in the
course of twenty years' experience in the far west.

Well, "old traps," Dr. C., and myself, were the deputed committee, that
night, to attend to the cases of the deer. Soon after dark we put out,
and in the course of a couple of hours, after some floundering in a
muddy "bottom" and through hazel brush, or chaparral, the "lick" was
found, and positions taken for raking the victims. "Old traps" took a
lodge in a clump of bushes. Dr. C. and I squatted on a dead tree, with a
few bushes around it, and in a particularly dark spot, from the fact of
some very heavy timber with wide-spreading tops standing around and
nearly over us.

The ability of keeping still in a disagreeable situation, for a long
time, is most desirable and necessary in the character of a
hunter;--some men have a faculty for holding a fishing-rod hours at a
time over a fishless tide, with wondrous ardor; and I have known men to
watch deer, bear, and other game, in one position, for ten or twenty
hours. Sauntering up and down in the dark, with wind and rain, and a
musket in your arms for company, is not pleasant pastime; but my
patience revolted at the idea of squatting on the wet log, all cramped
up, three or four hours, and no deer making their appearance; Doctor and
I made up our minds to arouse "old traps," and patter back to the camp.
Just as the resolution was about to be put in action, two deer, fine
antlered customers, made their appearance about three hundred yards from
us, out on a small plain, where their sprightly forms could just be made
out as they leisurely stepped along. Getting near "old traps," he soon
convinced us that _his_ eye was still open, although we had concluded he
was fast asleep. The sharp, whip-like crack of "old traps'" rifle
brought down one of the deer, and the other, in bounds of thirty or
forty feet at a spring, whisked nearly over us, and the Doctor and I
fired at the flying deer as he came; neither shot took effect, and off
he sped.

"Hurrah! for the old boy!" shouted the Doctor, as we all bustled up to
where the deer lay kicking and plunging in his death throes. "By Jove,
'traps,' you've put a ball clean through his head!"

"Yes, sir," said traps; "I ollers fix game that way, myself."

"Except when you fix them with the traps, eh?" said I.

"'Zactly," said traps. "But now, boys," he continued loading up his
rifle, "now let's snatch off the creature's hide, quarter it, and travel
back to the camp, for we ain't gwoine to have any more deer to-night."

This was soon accomplished. Trap seized the hind quarters and hide, and
travelled; Doctor and I brought up the rear with the rest of the meat
and fat.

To avoid the muddy "bottom," in going back, we concluded to take a
little round-about way, and relieved one another by taking "spells" at
carrying the rifles and the meat. We jogged along, chatting away, for
some time, when it occurred to us that we were getting very near the
camp, or ought to be, for we had walked long and fast enough.

Doctor was trudging on ahead with the meat; I was behind some twenty
yards with both rifles; we were passing through some thin timber which
skirted a little prairie, out on which we could see quite distinctly;
Doctor made a sudden halt--

"Hollo! by Jove, what's that?"

"What? eh? where?" said I, bustling up to the Doctor, who made free to
drop the meat, wheeled about, snatched his rifle out of my fists and
_broke!_

"A grizzly bear coming, by thunder!"

Upon that _hint_ there were two gentlemen seen hurrying themselves
_somewhat_, I reckon, on the back track. Doctor was what you might call
a fast trotter, but when he broke into a full gallop the odds against me
were dreadful! I was fairly distanced, and when perfectly blowed out
stopped to pull the briars out of my torn trowsers, scratched face and
dishevelled locks, listen to the enemy, and ascertain where the Doctor
had got to. No sound broke the reigning stillness, save the sonorous
"coo-hoot" of an owl. My rifle was empty, and a search satisfied me that
my caps were not to be found. My own cap had also disappeared in the
fright, and I was in a bad way for defence, and completely at a dead
loss as to the bearings of the camp.

"Well," thinks I, "it's no particular use crying over spilt milk--it's
no use to move when there is no idea existing of bettering one's self,
so here I'll _roost_ until daylight, unless Doctor comes back to hunt me
up!" I judged it was not far from 2 o'clock, A. M., and believed it
possible that our venison might only whet a grizzly bear's appetite to
follow up the pursuit and gormandize me!--A proper site for a _roost_
was the next matter of importance, and a scrubby oak with a thick top,
close by, offered an inviting elevation to lodge.

A long, long time seemed the coming day; and the sharp air of its
approach, and heavy dew, made "perching" in a crotch very fatiguing
"pastime."

When light began to dawn, sliding down I took an observation that
convinced me, according to Indian signs, that Doctor and I had gone
South too far to hit the camp, and, to the best of my reckoning, the old
bee tree was not far out of my way, and that I now struck for.

About noon, and a lovely day it was, I discovered the bee tree, made a
dinner on honey, which was scattered about considerably, giving evidence
of its having been visited by our rugged Russian friends.

And now, feeling anxious to see human faces, and not linger about a spot
where troublesome customers might abound, I made tracks for the camp,
which was reached about sundown, and where I found, to my regret, the
Doctor had not come in yet.

"Old Traps" had returned all safe enough, and had been prophesying "the
boys" were lost, and would not soon be found again. However, the old
fellow put away his deer skin, which he had been cleaning, &c., to give
me a feed of the deer, a few remnants yet remaining, and from my
exercise and fasting, never was a rude meal more luxurious. Two of the
party, with one of the black boys, and a mule, had been out since noon
in quest of us, and about midnight they returned with the Doctor, who
congratulated me on what he had estimated as an escape. So did I. We all
concluded _it was a_ DEER _hunt!_ Though we "had a time" at the bee
tree, next night, that made us about square.




Rather Twangy.


Three Irishmen, green as the Isle that per-duced 'em, but full of sin,
and fond of the crater, broke into a country store down in Maine, one
night last week, and after striking a light, they _lit_ upon a large
demijohn, having the suspicious look of a whiskey holder. One held the
light, while another held up the _demi_ to his mouth, and took a small
taster.

"Arrah, what a twang! An' it's what they call Shemaky, I'm thinkin'!"
says the fellow, screwing his face into all manner of puckers.

"It's the very stuff, thin, for me, so hould the light, and I'll take a
swig at 'im," says Paddy number two. "_Agh!_" says he, putting down the
demijohn in haste, "it's rale bhrandy--_agh-h!_"

"Branthy? Thin it's meself as'll have a wee bit uv a swig at 'em," and
Paddy number three took hold, and down he rushed a good slew of it!

"Murther and turf! It's every divil ov us are pizened--o-o-och!
Murther-r-r!" and he raised such a hullaballoo, that the neighbors were
awakened. They came rushing in, and arrested Paddy number three. The
others fled, with their bellies full of washing fluid! The poor fellow
had drank nearly a pint; being possessed with a gutta percha stomach, he
stood the infliction without kicking the bucket, but he was bleached, in
two days--white as a bolt of cotton cloth!




Passing Around the Fodder!

A DINNER SKETCH.


A few weeks ago, during a passage from Gotham to Boston, on the "_Empire
State_," one of the most elegant and swift steamers that ever man's
ingenuity put upon the waters, I met a well-known joker from the Quaker
city, on his first trip "down East." After mutually examining and
eulogising the external appearance and internal arrangements of the
"Empire," winding up our investigation, of course, with a _look_ into a
small corner cupboard in the barber's office, where a superb _smile_--as
_is_ a smile--can be usually enjoyed by the _nobbish_ investment of a
York shilling; soon after passing through "Hell Gate"--gliding by the
beautiful villas, chateaux, and almost princely palaces of the business
men of the great city of New York, we were soon out upon the broad, deep
Sound, a glorious place for steam-boating. Soon after, the bells
announced "supper ready"--a general stampede into the spacious cabin
took place, and though the tables strung along forty rods on each side
of the great cabin, not over half the crowd got seats upon this
interesting occasion. I was _about_ with my friend--in _time_, stuck our
legs under the mahogany, and gazed upon the open prospect for a supper
superb enough in all its details to tempt a jolly old friar from his
devotions. We got along very nicely. An old chap who sat above us some
seats, and whose rotund developments gave any ordinary observer reason
to suppose his appetite as unquenchable as the Maelstrom, kept reaching
about, and when tempting vessels were too remote, he'd bawl "right eout"
for them.

"Halloo! I say you, Mister there, just hand along that saas; give us a
chance, will ye, at that; notion on't, what d'ye call that stuff?"

"This?" says one, passing along a dish.

"Pshaw, no, t'other there."

"Oh! ah! yes, _this_," says my facetious friend.

"Well, that ain't it, but no odds; fetch it along!" and down we sent the
biggest dish of meat in our neighborhood.

"Now," says I, "my boy, I'll show you a 'dodge.' We'll see how it
works."

Filling a plate full to the brim, with all and each of the various
_heavy_ courses in our vicinity, I very politely passed it over to my
next neighbor with--

"Please to pass that up, sir?"

"Umph, eh?" says the gentleman, taking hold of the plate very gingerly;
"pass it _up_?"

"Aye, yes, if you please," says I.

By this time he had fairly got the loaded plate in his fists, and began
to look about him where to pass the plate _to_. Nobody in particular
seemed on the watch for a _spare_ plate. The gent looked back at me, but
I was "cutting away" and watching from the extreme corner of my left eye
the victim and his charge, while I pressed hard upon the corn pile of my
friend's foot under the table.

At length, the victim thought he saw some one up the table waiting for
the plate, and quickly he whispered to his next neighbor--

"Please, sir, to-to-a, _just pass this plate up!_"

The man took the plate, and being more of a practical operator than his
neighbor, gave the plate over to _his_ next neighbor, with--

"Pass this plate up to that gentleman, if you please," dodging his head
towards an old gent in specs, who sat near the head of the table,
grinning a ghastly smile over the field of good things.

"It's _going!_"

"_What?_" says my friend.

"The plate; it's going the rounds; just you keep quiet, you'll see a
good thing."

The plate, at length, got to the head of the table. It was given to the
old gentleman in specs; he looked over the top of his specs very
deliberately at the "fodder," then back at the thin, pale,
student-looking youth who handed it to him, then up and down the table.
A raw-boned, gaunt and hollow-looking disciple caught the eye of the old
gent; he must be the man who wanted the "load." His lips quacked as if
in the act of--"pass this plate, sir,"--to his next neighbor; he was too
far off for us to _hear_ his discourse. Well, the plate came booming
along down the opposite side; the tall man declined it and gave it over
to his next neighbor, who seemed a little tempted to take hold of the
invoice, but just then it occurred to him, probably, that he was keeping
_somebody_ (!) out of his grub, so he quickly turned to his neighbor and
passed the plate. One or two more moves brought the plate within our
range, and there it liked to have _stuck_, for a fussy old Englishman,
in whom politeness did not stick out very prominently, grunted--

"I don't want it, sir."

"Well, but, sir, please _pass it_," says the last victim, beseechingly
holding out the plate.

"Pass it? Here, mister, 's your plate," says Bull, at length reluctantly
seizing on the plate, and rushing it on to his next neighbor, who
started--

"Not mine, sir."

"Not yours! Who does it belong to? Pass it down to somebody."

Off went the plate again. Several ladies turned up their pretty eyes and
noses while the gents _passed it_ by them.

"Why, if there ain't that plate a going the rounds, that you gave me!"
says my next neighbor, to whom I had first given the "currency."

"That plate? Oh, yes, so it is; well," says I, with feigned
astonishment, "this is the first time I ever saw a good supper so
universally discarded!"

The plate was off again. It reached the foot of the table. An elderly
lady looked up, looked around, removed a large sweet potato from the
pile--then passed it along. An old salty-looking captain, just then took
a vacant seat, and the plate reached him just in the nick of time. He
looked voracious--

"Ah," said he, with a savage growl, "that's your sort; thunder and
oakum, I'm as peckish as a shark, and here's the _duff for me!_"

That ended the peregrinations of the plate, and I and my friend--_yelled
right out!_




A Hint to Soyer.


Magrundy says, in his work on _Grub_, that a Frenchman will "frigazee" a
pair of old boots and make a respectable soup out of an ancient chapeau;
but our friend Perriwinkle affirms that the French ain't "nowhere,"
after a feat he saw in the kitchen arrangement of a "cheap boarding
house" in the North End:--the landlady made a chowder out of an old
broom mixed with sinders, and after all the boarders had dined upon it
scrumptiously, the remains made broth for the whole family, next day,
besides plenty of fragments left for a poor family! That landlady is
bound--_to make Rome howl!_




The Leg of Mutton.


I'm going to state to you the remarkable adventures of a very remarkable
man, who went to market to get a leg of mutton for his Sunday dinner. I
have heard, or read somewhere or other, almost similar stories; whether
they were real or imaginary, I am unable to say; but I can vouch for the
authenticity of my story, for I know the hero well.

In the year 1812, it will be recollected that we had some military
disputes with England, which elicited some pretty tall fights by land
and sea, and the land we live in was considerably excited upon the
subject, and patriotism rose to many degrees above blood heat.
Philadelphia, about that time, like all other cities, I suppose, was the
scene of drum-beating, marching and counter-marching, and volunteering
of the patriotic people.

The President sent forth his proclamations, the governors of the
respective States reiterated them, and a large portion of our brave
republicans were soon in or marching to the battle field. There lived
and wrought at his trade, carpentering, in the city of Philadelphia,
about that time, a very tall, slim man, named Houp; Peter Houp, that was
his name. He was a very steady, upright, and honest man, married, had a
small, comfortable family, and to all intents and purposes, settled down
for life. How deceptive, how unstable, how uncertain is man, to say
nothing of the more frail portion of the creation--woman! Peter Houp one
fair morning took his basket on his arm, and off he went to get a leg of
mutton and trimmings for his next Sunday's dinner. Beyond the object of
research, Peter never dreamed of extending his travels for that day,
certain. A leg of mutton is not an indifferent article, well cooked, a
matter somewhat different to amateur cooks; and as good legs of mutton
as can be found on this side of the big pond, can be found almost any
Saturday morning in the Pennsylvania market wagons, which congregate
along Second street, for a mile or two in a string. Peter could have
secured his leg and brought it home in an hour or two at most.

But hours passed, noon came, and night followed it, and in the course of
time, the morrow, the joyous Sunday, for which the _leg of mutton_ was
to be brought and prepared, and offered up, a sacrifice to the household
gods and grateful appetites, came, but neither the leg of mutton, nor
the man Peter, husband and father Houp, darkened the doors of the
carpenter's humble domicil, that day, the next or the next! I cannot, of
course, realize half the agony or tortures of suspense that must have
preyed upon that wife's heart and brain, that must have haunted her
feverish dreams at night, and her aching mind by day. When grim death
strikes a blow, whenever so near and dear a friend is levelled, cold,
breathless, dead--we see, we know there is the end! Grief has its
season, the bitterest of woe then calms, subsides, or ceases; but
_lost_--which hope prevents mourning as dead, and whose death-like
absence almost precludes the idea that they live, engenders in the soul
of true affection, a gloomy, torturing and desponding sorrow, more
agonizing than the sting actual death leaves behind. I have endeavored
to depict what must have been, what were the feelings of Peter Houp's
wife. She mourned and grieved, and still hoped on, though months and
years passed away without imparting the slightest clue to the
unfortunate fate of her husband. Her three children, two boys and a
girl, grew up; ten, eleven, twelve years passed away, with no tidings of
the lost man having reached his family; but they still lived with a kind
of despairing hope that the husband and father would yet _come home_,
and so he did.

Let us see what became of Peter Houp, the carpenter. As he strolled
along with his basket under his arm, on the eventful morning he sought
the leg of mutton, he met a platoon of men dressed up in uniform,
muskets on their shoulders, colors flying, drums beating, and a mob of
hurrahers following and shouting for the volunteers. Yes, it was a
company of volunteers, just about shipping off for the South, to join
the "Old Zack" of that day, General Jackson. Peter Houp saw in the ranks
of the volunteers several of his old _chums_; he spoke to them, walked
along with the men of Mars, got inspired--patriotic--_drunk_. Two days
after that eventful Saturday, on which the quiet, honest, and
industrious carpenter left his wife and children full of hope and
happiness, he found himself in blue breeches, roundabout, and black cap,
on board a brig--bound for New Orleans. A volunteer for the war! It was
too late to repent then; the brig was ploughing her way through the
foaming billows, and in a few weeks she arrived at Mobile, as she could
not reach New Orleans, the British under General Packenham being off the
Balize. So the volunteers were landed at Mobile, and hurried on over
land to the devoted (or was to be) Crescent city. Peter Houp was not
only a good man, liable as all men are to make a false step once in
life, but a brave one. Having gone so far, and made a step so hard to
retrace, Peter's cool reason got bothered; he poured the spirits down to
keep his spirits up, as the saying goes, and abandoned himself to fate.
Caring neither for life nor death, he was found behind the cotton bags,
which he had assisted in getting down from the city to the battle
ground, piled up, and now ready to defend his country while life lasted.
Peter fought well, being a man not unlike the brave Old Hickory himself,
tall, firm, and resolute-looking. He attracted General Jackson's
attention during the battle, and afterwards was personally complimented
for his skill and courage by the victorious Commander-in-chief. Every
body knows the history of the battle of New Orleans--I need not relate
it. After the victory, the soldiers were allowed considerable license,
and they made New Orleans a scene of revel and dissipation, as all
cities are likely to represent when near a victorious army. Peter Houp
was on a "regular <DW12>," a "big tare," a long spree--and for one so
unlike any thing of the kind, he went it with a _perfect looseness_.

A rich citizen's house was robbed--burglariously entered and robbed; and
Peter Houp, the staid, plain Philadelphia carpenter, who would not have
bartered his reputation for all the ingots of the Incas, while in his
sober senses, was arrested as one of the burglars, and the imputation,
false or true, caused him to spend seven years in a penitentiary. O,
what an awful probation of sorrow and mental agony were those seven long
years! But they passed over, and Peter Houp was again free, not a worse
man, fortunately, but a much wiser one! He had not seen or heard a word
of those so long dearly cherished, and cruelly deserted--his family--for
eight years, and his heart yearned towards them so strongly that,
pennyless, pale and care-worn as he was, he would have started
immediately for home, but being a good carpenter, and wages high, he
concluded to go to work, while he patiently awaited a reply of his
abandoned family to his long and penitent written letter. Weeks, months,
and a year passed, and no reply came, though another letter was
dispatched, for fear of the miscarriage of the first; (and both letters
did miscarry, as the wife never received them.) Peter gave himself up as
a lost man, his family lost or scattered, and nothing but death could
end his detailed wretchedness. But still, as fortune would have it, he
never again sought refuge from his sorrows in the poisoned chalice, the
rum glass; not he. Peter toiled, saved his money, and at the end of four
years found himself in the possession of a snug little sum of hard
cash, and a fully established good name. But all of this time he had
heard not a syllable of his home; and all of a sudden, one fine day in
early spring, he took passage in a ship, arrived in Philadelphia; and in
a few rods from the wharf, upon which he landed, he met an old neighbor.
The astonishment of the latter seemed wondrous; he burst out--

"My God! is this Peter Houp, come from his grave?"

"No," said Peter, in his slow, dry way, "I'm from New Orleans."

Peter soon learned that his wife and children yet lived in the same
place, and long mourned him as forever gone. Peter Houp felt any thing
but merry, but he was determined to have his joke and a merry meeting.
In an hour or two Peter Houp, the long lost wanderer, stood in his own
door.

"Well, Nancy, _here is thy leg of mutton!_" and a fine one too he had.

The most excellent woman was alone. She was of Quaker origin; sober and
stoical as her husband, she regarded him wistfully as he stood in the
door, for a long time; at last she spoke--

"Well, Peter, thee's been gone a _long time for it_."

The next moment found them locked in each other's arms; overtasked
nature could stand no more, and they both cried like children.

The carpenter has once held offices of public trust, and lives yet, I
believe, an old and highly respected citizen of "Brotherly Love."




A Chapter on Misers.


We all love, worship and adore that everlasting deity--_money_. The poor
feel its want, the rich know its power. Virtue falls before its
corrupting and seductive influence. Honor is tainted by it. Pride, pomp
and power, are but the creatures of money, and which corrupt hearts and
enslaved souls wield to the great annoyance--yea, curse of mankind in
general.

It is well, that, though we are all fond of money, not over one in a
thousand, prove miserable misers, and go on to amass dollar upon dollar,
until the shining heaps of garnered gold and silver become a god, and a
faith, that the rich wretch worships with the tenacious devotion of the
most frenzied fanatic. In the accumulation of a competency, against the
odds and chances of advanced life, a man may be pardoned for a degree of
economical prudence; but for parsimonious meanness, there is certainly
no excuse. I have heard my father speak of an old miserly fellow, who
owned a great many blocks of buildings in Philadelphia, as well as many
excellent farms around there, and who, though rich as a Jew (worth
$200,000), was so despicably and scandalously mean, as to go through the
markets and beg bones of the butchers, to make himself and family soup
for their dinners! He resorted to a score of similar humiliating
"dodges," whereby to prolong his miserable existence, and add dime and
dollar to his already bursting coffers.

At length, Death knocked at his door. The debt was one the poor wretch
would fain have gotten a little more time on, but the Court of Death
brooks no delay--there is no cunning devise of learned counsel, no writs
of error, by which even a miserable miser, or voluptuous millionaire,
can gain a moment's delay when death issues his summons. The miser was
called for, and he knew his time had come. He sent for the undertaker,
he bargained for his burial--

"They say I'm rich! it's a lie, sir--I'm poor, miserably poor. I want
but three carriages. My children may want a dozen--I say but _three_;
put that down. A very plain coffin; pine, stained will do, and no
ornaments, hark ye. A cheap grave. I would be buried on one of my farms,
but then the coach-drivers would charge so much to carry me out! Now,
what will you ask for the job?"

"About thirty dollars, sir," said the almost horrified undertaker.

"Thirty dollars! why, do you want to rob me? Say fifteen dollars--give
me a receipt--_and I'll pay you the cash down!_"

Poor wretch! by the time he had uttered this, his soul had flown to its
resting-place in another world.

In the upper part of Boston, on what is called "the Neck," there lived,
some years ago, a wealthy old man, who resorted to sundry curious
methods to live without cost to himself. His house--one of the
handsomest mansions in the "South End," in its day--stood near the road
over which the gardeners, in times past, used to go to market, with
their loads of vegetables, two days of each week. Old Gripes would be up
before day, and on the lookout for these wagons.

"Halloo! what have you got there?" says the miser to the countryman.

"Well, daddy, a little of all sorts; potatoes, cabbages, turnips,
parsnips, and so on. Won't you look at 'em?"

At this, the old miser would begin to fumble over the vegetables, pocket
a potato, an onion, turnip, or--

"Ah, yes, they are good enough, but we poor creatures can't afford to
pay such prices as you ask; no, no--we must wait until they come down."
The old miser would sneak into the house with his stolen vegetables, and
the farmer would drive on. Then back would come the miser, and lay in
ambush for another load, and thus, in course of a few hours, he would
raise enough vegetables to give his household a dinner. Another "dodge"
of this artful old dodger, was to take all the coppers he got (and, of
course, a poor creature like him handled a great many), and then go
abroad among the stores and trade off six for a fourpence, and when he
had four fourpences, get a quarter of a dollar for them, and thus in
getting a dollar, he made four per cent., by several hours' disgusting
meanness and labor.

But one day the old miser ran foul of a snag. A market-man had watched
him for some time purloining his vegetables, and on the first of the
year, sent in a bill of several dollars, for turnips, potatoes,
parsnips, &c. The old miser, of course, refused to pay the bill, denying
ever having had "the goods." But the countryman called, in _propria
persona_, refreshed his memory, and added, that, if the bill was not
footed on sight, he should prosecute him for _stealing!_ This made the
old miser shake in his boots. He blustered for awhile; then reasoned the
case; then plead poverty. But the purveyor in vegetables was not the man
to be cabbaged in that way, and the old miser called him into his
sitting-room, and ordered his son, a wild young scamp, to go up stairs
and see if he could find five dollars in any of the drawers or boxes up
there. The young man finally called out--

"Dad, which bag shall I take it out of, _the gold or silver_?"

"Odd zounds!" bawled the old man--"the boy wants to let on I've got bags
of gold and silver!"

And so he had, many thousands of dollars in good gold and silver; he
hobbled up stairs, got nine half dollars, and tried to get off fifty
cents less than the countryman's bill; but the countryman was stubborn
as a mule, and would not abate a farthing--so the old miser had to
hobble up stairs and fetch down his fifty cents more, and the whole
operation was like squeezing bear's grease from a pig's tail, or jerking
out eye-teeth.

The miser never waylaid the market-men again; and not long after this,
he got a spurious dollar put upon him in one of his "exchanging"
operations, and that wound up his penny shaving.

Time passed--Death called upon the wretched man of ingots and money
bags,--but while power remained to forbid it, the old miser refused to
have a physician. When, to all appearance, his senses were gone, his
friends drew the miser's pantaloons from under his pillow, where he had
always insisted on their remaining during his sleeping hours, and his
last illness--but as one of the attendants slowly removed the garment,
the poor old man, with a convulsive effort--a galvanic-like grab--threw
out his bony, cold hand, and seized his old pantaloons!

The miser clutched them with a dying grasp; words struggled in his
throat; he could not utter them; his jaw fell--he was dead!

Much curiosity was manifested by the friends and relatives to know what
could have caused the poor old man to cling to his time-worn pantaloons;
but the mystery was soon revealed--for upon examination of the linings
of the waistbands and watch-fob, over $30,000 in bank notes were there
concealed!

The Lord's pardon and human sympathy be with all such misguided and
wretched slaves of--money, say we.




Dog Day.


I used to like dogs--a puppy love that I got bravely over, since once
upon a time, when a Dutch _bottier_, in the city of Charleston, S. C.,
put an end to my poor _Sue_,--the prettiest and most devoted female bull
terrier specimen of the canine race you ever did see, I guess. My _Sue_
got into the wrong pew, one morning; the crout-eating cordwainer and she
had a dispute--he, the bullet-headed ball of wax, ups with his revolver,
and--I was dogless! I don't think dogs a very profitable investment, and
every man weak enough to keep a dog in a city, ought to pay for the
luxury handsomely--to the city authorities. Some people have a great
weakness for dogs. Some fancy gentlemen seem to think it the very apex
of highcockalorumdom to have the skeleton of a greyhound and highly
polished collar--following them through crowded thorough-fares. Some
young ladies, especially those of doubtful ages, delight in caressing
lumps of white, cotton-looking dumpy dogs and toting them around, to the
disgust of the lookers-on--with all the fondness and blind infatuation
of a mamma with her first born, bran new baby. Wherever you see any
quantity of white and black _loafers_--Philadelphia, for instance,
you'll see rafts of ugly and wretched looking curs. Boz says poverty and
oysters have a great affinity; in this country, for oysters read _dogs_.
Who has not, that ever travelled over this remarkable country, had
occasion to be down on dogs? Who that has ever lain awake, for hours at
a stretch, listening to a blasted cur, not worth to any body the powder
that would blow him up--but has felt a desire to advocate the dog-law,
so judiciously practised in all well-regulated cities? Who that ever
had a sneaking villanous cur slip up behind and _nip_ out a patch of
your trowsers, boot top and calf--the size of an oyster, but has felt
for the pistol, knife or club, and sworn eternal enmity to the whole
canine race? Who that ever had a big dog jump upon your Russia-ducks and
patent leathers--just as he had come out of a mud-puddle, but has nearly
forfeited his title to Christianity, by cursing aloud in his grief--like
a trooper? Well, I have, for one of a thousand.

The fact of the business is, with precious few exceptions, dogs are a
nuisance, whatever Col. Bill Porter of the "Spirit," and his thousand
and one dog-fancying and inquiring friends, may think to the contrary;
and the man that will invest fifty real dollars in a dog-skin, has got a
tender place in his head, not healed up as it ought to be.

While "putting up," t'other day, at the Irving House, New York, I heard
a good dog story that will bear repeating, I think. A sporting gent from
the country, stopping at the Irving, wanted a dog, a good dog, not
particular whether it was a spaniel, hound, pointer, English terrier or
Butcher's bull. So a friend advised him to put an advertisement in the
Sun and Spirit of the Times, which he did, requesting the "fancy" to
bring along the right sort of dog to the Irving House, room number --.

The advertisement appeared simultaneously in the two papers on Saturday.
There were but few calls that day; but on Monday, the "Spirit" having
been freely imbibed by its numerous readers over Sunday, the dog men
were awake, and then began the scene. The occupant of room number --had
scarcely got up, before a servant appeared with a man and a dog.

"Believe, sir, you advertised for a dog?" quoth he with the animal.

"Yes," was the response of the country fancy man, who, by the way, it
must be premised, was rather green as to the quality and prices of fancy
dogs.

"What kind of a dog do you call that?" he added.

"A greyhound, full blooded, sir."

"Full blooded?" says the country sportsman. "Well, he don't look as
though he had much blood in him. He'd look better, wouldn't he, mister,
if he was full bellied--looks as hollow as a flute!"

This remark, for a moment, rather staggered the dog man, who first
looked at his dog and then at the critic. Choking down his dander, or
disgust, says he:

"That's the best greyhound you ever saw, sir."

"Well, what do you ask for him?"

"Seventy-five dollars."

"What? Seventy-five dollars for that dog frame?"

"I guess you're a fool any way," says the dog man: "you don't know a
hound from a tan yard cur, you jackass! Phe-e-wt! come along, Jerry!"
and the man and dog disappeared.

The man with the hollow dog had not stepped out two minutes, before the
servant appeared with two more dog merchants; both had their specimens
along, and were invited to "step in."

"Ah! that's a dog!" ejaculated the country sportsman, the moment his
eyes lit upon the massive proportions of a thundering edition of Mt. St.
Bernard.

"That _is_ a dog, sir," was the emphatic response of the dog merchant.

"How much do you ask for that dog?" quoth the sportsman.

"Well," says the trader, patting his dog, "I thought of getting about
fifty-five dollars for him, but I--"

"Stop," interrupted the country sportsman, "that's enough--he won't
suit, no how; I can't go them figures on dogs." The man and dog left
growling, and the next man and dog were brought up.

"Why, that's a queer dog, mister, ain't it? 'Tain't got no hair on it;
why, where in blazes did you raise such a dog as that; been scalded,
hain't it?" says the rural sportsman, examining the critter.

"Scalded?" echoed the dog man, looking no ways amiable at the speaker,
"why didn't you never see a Chinese terrier, afore?"

"No, and if that's one, I don't care about seeing another. Why, he looks
like a singed possum?"

"Well, you're a pooty looking country jake, you are, to advertise for a
_dog_, and don't know Chiney terrier from a singed possum?"

Another rap at the door announced more dogs, and as the man opened it to
get out with his singed possum, a genus who evidently "killed for
Keyser," rushed in with a pair of the
ugliest-looking--savage--snub-nosed, slaughter-house pups, "the fancy"
might ever hope to look upon! As these meat-axish canines made a rush at
the very boot tops of the country sportsman, he "shied off," pretty
perceptibly.

"Are you de man advertised for de dogs, sa-a-ay? You needn't be afraid
o' dem; come a'here, lay da-own, Balty--day's de dogs, mister, vot you
read of!"

"Ain't they rather fierce?" asked the rural sportsman, eyeing the ugly
brutes.

"Fierce? Better believe dey are--show 'em a f-f-ight, if you want to see
'em go in for de chances! You want to see der teeth?"

"No, I guess not," timidly responded the sportsman; "they are not
exactly what I want," he continued.

"What," says Jakey, "don't want 'em? Why, look a'here, you don't go for
to say dat you 'spect I'm agoin' for to fetch d-dogs clean down here,
for nuthin', do you, sa-a-ay? Cos if you do, I'll jis drop off my duds
and lam ye out o' yer boots!"

Jakey was just beginning to square, when his belligerent propositions
were suddenly nipped in the bud, by the servant opening the door and
ushering in more dogs; and no sooner did Jakey's pups see the
new-comers, than they went in; a fight ensued--both of Jakey's pups
lighting down on an able-bodied, big-bone sorrel dog, who appeared
perfectly happy in the transaction, and having a tremendous jaw of his
own, made the bones of the pups crack with the high pressure he gave
them. Of course a dog fight is the _cue_ for a man fight, and in the wag
of a dead lamb's tail, Jakey and the proprietor of the sorrel dog had a
dispute. Jakey was attitudinizing _a la_ "the fancy," when the sorrel
dog man--who, like his dog, was got up on a liberal scale of strength
and proportions--walked right into Jakey's calculations, and whirled him
in double flip-flaps on to the wash-stand of the rural sportsman's room!
Our sporting friend viewed the various combatants more in bodily fear
than otherwise, and was making a break for the door, to clear himself,
when, to his horror and amazement, he found the entry beset by sundry
men and boys, and any quantity of dogs--dogs of every hue, size, and
description. At that moment the chawed-up pups of Jakey, and their
equally used-up master, came a rushing down stairs--another fight ensued
on the stairs between Jakey's dogs and some others, and then a stampede
of dogs--mixing up of dogs--tangling of ropes and straps--cursing and
hurraing, and such a time generally, as is far better imagined than
described. The boarders hearing such a wild outcry--to say nothing of
the yelps of dogs, came out of their various rooms, and retired as
quickly, to escape the stray and confused dogs, that now were ki-yi-ing,
yelping, and pitching all over the house! By judicious marshalling of
the servants--broom-sticks, rolling-pins and canes, the dogs and their
various proprietors were ejected, and order once more restored; the
country sportsman seized his valise, paid his bills and "vamosed the
ranche," and ever after it was incorporated in the rules of the Irving,
that gentlemen are strictly prohibited from dealing in dogs while
"putting up" in that house.




Amateur Gardening.


"I don't see what in sin's become of them dahlias I set out this
Spring," said Tapehorn, a retired slop-shop merchant, to his wife, one
morning a month ago, as he hunted in vain among the weeds and grass of
his garden, to see where or when his two-dollars-a-piece dahlia roots
were going to appear.

"Can't think what's the matter with 'em," he continued. "Goldblossom
said they were the finest roots he ever sold--ought to be up and in
bloom--two months ago."

"Oh, pa, I forgot to tell you," said Miss Tapehorn, "that our Patrick,
one morning last Spring, was digging in the garden there, and he turned
up some things that looked just like sweet potatoes; mother and I looked
at them, and thought they were potatoes those Mackintoshes had left
undug when they moved away last winter!"

"Well, you-a--" gasped Tapehorn.

"Well, pa, ma and I had them all dug up and cooked, and they were the
meanest tasting things we ever knew, and we gave them all to the pigs!"

Tapehorn looked like a man in the last stages of disgust, and jamming
his fists down into his pockets, he walked into the house, muttering:

"Tut, tut, tut!--thirty-two dollars and the finest lot of dahlias in the
world--_gone to the pigs!_"




The Two Johns at the Tremont.


It is somewhat curious that more embarrassments, and queer _contre
temps_ do not take place in the routine of human affairs, when we find
so _many_ persons floating about of one and the same name. It must be
shocking to be named John Brown, troublesome to be called John Thompson,
but who can begin to conceive the horrors of that man's situation, who
has at the baptismal font received the title of _John Smith_?

Now it only wants a slight accident, the most trivial occurrence of
fate--the meeting of two or three persons of the same name, or of great
similarity of name, to create the most singular and even ludicrous
circumstances and tableaux. One of these affairs came off at the Tremont
House, some time since. One Thomas Johns, a blue-nose Nova-Scotian--a
man of "some pumpkins" and "persimmons" at home, doubtless, put up for a
few days at the Tremont, and about the same time one John Thomas, a
genuine son of John Bull, just over in one of the steamers, took up his
quarters at the same respectable and worthy establishment.

Thomas Johns was a linen draper, sold silks, satinets, linen, and
dimities, at his establishment in the Provinces, and was also a
politician, and "went on" for the part of magistrate, occasionally. John
Thomas was a retired wine-merchant, and, having netted a bulky fortune,
he took it into his head to _travel_, and as naturally as he despised,
and as contemptuously as he looked upon this poor, wild, unsophisticated
country of ours, he nevertheless condescended to come and look at us.

Well, there they were, Thomas Johns, and John Thomas; one was "roomed"
in the north wing, the other in the south wing. Thomas Johns went out
and began reconnoitering among the Yankee shop-keepers. John Thomas,
having a fortnight's pair of sea legs on, and full of bile and beer,
laid up at his lodgings, and passed the first three days in "hazing
around" the servants, and blaspheming American manners and customs.

Old John was quietly snoring off his bottle after a sumptuous Tremont
dinner, when a repeated rap, rap, rap at his door aroused him.

"What are you--at?" growls John.

"It's ma, zur?" says one of the Milesian servants.

"Blast yer hies, what want yer?" again growls John.

"If ye plaze, zur, there's a young man below wishes to see you," says
the servant.

"Ha, tell 'im to clear out!" John having predestinated the "young man,"
he gave an apoplectic snort, relapsed into his lethargy, and the servant
whirled down into the rotunda, and informed the "young man" what the
gentleman desired.

"He did, eh?" says the young man, who looked as if he might be a clerk
in an importing house. The young man left, in something of a high
dudgeon.

"What'r yer at now?" roared John Thomas, a second time, roused by the
servant's rat-tat-too.

"It's a gentleman wants to see yez's, zur."

"Tell him to go to the d--!" and John snored again.

"Is John in?" asks the gentleman, as the servant returns.

"Mister _Thomas_ did yez mane, zur?"

"No, yes, it is (looking at his tablets) same thing, I suppose; Thomas
Johns," says the gentleman.

"I belave it's right, zur," says the servant.

"Well, what did he say?"

"Faith, I think he's not in a good humor, betwane us, zur; he says yez
may go to the divil!"

"Did he? Well, that's polite, any how--invite a gentleman to dine with
him, and then meet him with such language as that. The infernal 'blue
nose,' I'll pull it, I'll tweak it until he'll roar like a calf!" and
off went "the gentleman," hot as No. 6.

"I belave he's not in, zur," says the same servant, answering another
inquiry for John Thomas, or Thomas Johns, the carriage driver was not
certain which.

"Oh, ho!" says the servant, "it's a ride ould John's going fur to take
till himself, and didn't want any callers." Reaching John's door, he
began his tattoo.

"Be hang'd to ye, what'r ye at now?" growls John, partly up and dressed.

"The carriage is here, zur."

"What carriage is that?" growls John, continuing his toilet.

"I don't know, zur; I'll go down and sae the _number_, if ye plaze."

"Thunder and tommy! What do I care for the number? Go tell the
carriage----"

"To go to the divil, zur?" says the servant, in anticipation of the
command.

"No, you bog-trotter, go tell the carriage to wait."

The servant went down, and John continued his toilet, muttering--

"Ah, some of their _haccommodations_, I expect; these American
landlords, as they style 'em in these infernal wild woods 'ere, do
manage to give a body tolerable sort of haccommodations; ha, but they'll
take care to look hout for the dollars. I don't know, tho', these
fellers 'ere appear tolerably clever; want me to ride hout, I suppose,
and see some of their Yankee lions. Haw! haw! _Lions!_ I wonder what
they'd say hif they saw Lun'un, and looked at St. Paul's once!"

Getting through his toilet--and it takes an Englishman as long to fix
his stiff cravat and that _stiffer_ and stauncher shirt-collar, and rub
his hat, than a Frenchman to rig out _tout ensemble_, to say nothing of
the gallons of water and dozens of towels he uses up in the
operation--John found the carriage waiting; he asked no questions, but
jumped in.

"Isn't there some others beside yourself going out, sir?" says the
driver, supposing he had the right man, or one of them.

"No; drive off--where are you going to drive me?"

"Mount Auburn, sir, the carriage was ordered for."

"Humph! Some of the _battle-grounds_, I suppose," John grunts to
himself, falls into a fit of English doggedness, and the coach drives
off.

Thomas Johns made little or no noise or confusion in the house,
consequently he was not known to the servants, and very little known to
the clerks. John Thomas was another person--he was all fuss and
feathers. He kept his bell ringing, and the servants rushing for towels
and water, water and towels, boots and beer, beer and boots, the English
papers, maps of America, &c., without cessation. He was John Thomas and
Thomas Johns, one and indivisible.

John got his ride, and returned to the hotel sulkier than ever; and by
the time he got unrobed of his pea-jackets and huge shawls about his
burly neck, he was telegraphed by a servant to come down; there was a
gentleman below on business with him. John foreswore business, but the
gentleman must see him, and up he came for that purpose. His
unmistakable _mug_ told he was "an officer."

"I've a bill against you, sir, $368,20. Must be paid immediately!" said
the presenter, peremptorily.

John was thunderstruck.

"Me, and be hanged to ye!" says John, getting his breath.

"Yes, sir, for goods packed at Smith & Brown's, for Nova Scotia. The
bill was to be paid this morning, as you agreed, but you told the clerk
to go to the d--l! Won't do, that sort of work, here. Pay the bill, or
you must go with me!"

John, when he found himself in custody, swore it was some infernal
Yankee scheme to gouge him, and he started for the clerk's office,
below, to have some explanation. As John and the officer reached the
rotunda, a gentleman steps up behind John, and gives his nose a
first-rate _lug_. They clinched, the bystanders and servants interposed,
and John and his assailant were parted, and by this time the nose puller
discovered he had the wrong man by the nose!

"Is your name Thomas Johns?" says the nose puller.

"Blast you, no!"

"Who pays this bill for the carriage, if your name ain't Johns?" says a
man with a bill for the carriage hire.

"I allers heard as ow you Yan-gees were inquisitive, and sharp after the
dollars, and I'm 'anged if you ain't awful. My name's John Thomas, from
Lun'un, bound back again in the next steamer. Now who's got any thing
against _me_?"

Thomas Johns came in at this climax, an explanation ensued, John was
relieved of his embarrassment, and all were finally satisfied, except
John Thomas, who, venting a few bottles of his spleen on every body and
all things--Americans especially--took to his bed and beer, and snorted
for a week.




The Yankee in a Boarding School.


"Well, squire, as I wer' tellin' on ye, when I went around pedlin'
notions, I met many queer folks; some on 'em so darn'd preoud and sassy,
they wouldn't let a feller look at 'em; a-n-d 'd shut their doors and
gates, _bang_ into a feller's face, jest as ef a Yankee pedler was a
pizen sarpint! Then there waa-s t'other kind o' human critters, so pesky
poor, or 'nation stingy, they'd pinch a fourpence till it'd squeal like
a stuck pig. Ye-e-s, I do _swow_, I've met some critters so dog-ratted
mean, that ef you had sot a steel trap onder their beds, a-n-d baited it
with three cents, yeou'd a cotch ther con-feoun-ded souls afore
mornin'!"

"Massy sakes!" responded the squire.

"Fact! by ginger!" echoed the ex-pedler.

"Well, go on, Ab," said the squire, giving his pipe another 'charge,'
and lighting up for the yarn Absalom Slamm had promised the gals, soon
as the quilt was out and refreshments were handed around.

"Go on, Ab--let's hear abeout that scrape yeou had with the school marm
and her gals."

"Wall, I _will_, squire; gals, spread yeourselves areound and squat;
take care o' yeour corset strings, and keep deth-ly still. Wall; neow,
yeou all sot? Hain't none o' ye been in the pedlin' business, I guess;
wall, no matter, tho' it's dread-ful pleasant sometimes: then again at
others, 'taint."

"Go on, Ab, go on," said the squire.

"Ye-e-s; wall, as I was saying, 'beout tradin', none o' yeou ever been
in the tradin' way? Wall, it deon't matter a cent; as I was agoin' to
say, I had hard, hard luck one season--got clean busted all tew smash!
O-o-o! it was _dre-a-a-dful times_; jest abeout the time Gineral Jackson
clapped his _we-toe_ on the hull o' the banks, kersock. Wall, yeou see,
I got broke all tew flinders. My ole hoss died, the sun and rain beat up
my wagon, I sold eout my notions tew a feller that paid me all in
ceounter-fit money, and then he dug eout, as Parson Dodge says, to
undiskivered kedn'try.

"There was only one way abeout it; I was beound to dew somethin',
instead o' goin' to set deown and blubber; and as I layed stretched eout
in bed one Sunday morning, in Marm Smith's tavern, in the cockloft among
the old stuff, I spies a darn'd ole consarn that took my fancy immazin'!
As Deb Brown said, when she 'sperienced rele-gen, I felt my sperrets
raisin' me clean eout o' bed, and eout I beounced, like a pea in a hot
skillet. Deown I goes to Marm Smith; the ole lady was dressed up to
death in her Sunday-go-to-meetin's, and jest as preoud and sassy as her
darn'd ole skin ceould heould in.

"'Marm Smith,' sez I, 'yeou hain't got no ole stuff yeou deon't want tew
sell nor nuthin', dew ye?'

"'_Ab Slamm_,' sez she, plantin' her thumbs on her hip joints, and as
the milishey officer ses on trainin' day, comin' at me, 'right face,'
she spread herself like a clapboard. 'Ab Slamm,' sez she, 'what on airth
possesses yeou to talk o' tradin' on the Sabbath?'

"'Wall,' sez I, 'Marm Smith, yeou needn't take on so 'beout it; I guess
a feller kin ax a question witheout tradin' or breakin' the Sabbath all
tew smash, either! Neow,' says I, 'yeou got some ole plunder up ther in
the cockloft, where yeou stuck me to sleep; 'tain't much use to yeou,
and one article I see I want to trade fur.'

"Wall, we didn't trade _'zactly_. Marm Smith, yeou see, got
dre-e-e-adful relejus 'beout that time--wouldn't let her gals draw ther
breth scacely, and shot her roosters all up in the cellar every Sunday.
Fact, by ginger! Wall, yeou see, Marm Smith were agin tradin' on Sunday,
but she sed I might arrange it with Ben, her barkeeper, and so I got the
instrument, _any heow_."

"What was it, Ab?" inquired the squire.

"Massy sakes, tell us!" says the gals.

"I sha'n't dew it, till I tell the hull abeout it," Ab replied, rather
choosing, like Captain Cuttle, to break the gist of his information into
small chunks, and so make it the more _telling_ and comparatively
interesting.

"When I got the _instrument_, and paid Marm Smith my board bill, I wer
in possession of a cash capital of jest three fo'pences. I took my
jack-knife, and unjinted the instrument, cleaned it off, then wrapped
the different sections up in a paper, put the hull in my little yaller
trunk, and dug eout. When I got clean eout o' sight and hearin' of
everybody I'd ever hear'n tell on, I stopped r-i-g-h-t in my track. My
cash capital wer gone, my mortal remains were holler as a flute, and my
old trunk had worn a hole clean through the shoulder o' my best Sunday
coat. I put up, and sez I tew the landlord:

"'Squire, what sort o' place is this for a sheow?'

"'For a sh-e-ow?' sez he.

"'Ye-e-e-s,' sez I.

"'What a' yeou got to sh-e-o-w?' sez he.

"'The most wonderful instrument ever inwent-'d,' sez I.

"'What's 't fur?' sez he.

"'For the wimen,' sez I.

"'O! sez he, lookin' alfired peart and smeart, as tho' he'd seen a flock
o' l'fants; 'quack doctor, I s'pose, eh?'

"'No, I ben't a quack doctor, nuther,' sez I, priming up at the
insin-i-wa-tion.

"'Wall, what on airth hev yeou got, _any heow_?' sez he.

"When he 'poligized in that sort o' way, in course I up and told him
the full perticklers 'beout a wonderful _instrument_ I had for the
ladies and wimen folks. A-n-d heow I wanted to sheow it before some o'
the female sim-i-nar-ries, and give a lectoor on't.

"'By bunker!' sez he, 'then yeou've cum jest teou the spot; three miles
up the road is the great _Jargon Institoot_, 'spressly for young ladies,
wher they teach 'em the 'rethmetic, French scollopin', and High-tall-ion
curlycues; dancin', tight-lacin', hair-dressin', and so forth, with the
use of curlin' irons, forty pinanners, and parfumeries chuck'd in.'

"'Yeou deon't _say_ so?' sez I.

"'Yes, I doos,' sez he; and then yeou had orter seen me make streaks fur
the Jargon Institoot.

"I feound the place, knocked on the door, and a feller all starch'd up,
lookin' cruel nice, kem and opened the door. I axed if the marm were in.
Then he wanted tew kneow which of 'em I wanted tew see. 'The head marm
of the Institoot,' sez I. 'Please to give me yeour keard,' sez he. 'You
be darn'd,' sez I; 'I'd have yeou know, mister,' sez I, 'I don't deal in
_keards_--never did, nuther!'

"The feller show'd a heap o' ivory, and brought deown the head marm. It
weould a' dun Marm Smith's ole heart good to seen this dre-e-a-d-ful
pius critter. She looked mighty nice, a-n-d she scolloped reound, and
beow'd and cut an orful quantity o' capers, when I ondid my business to
her. I went on and told her heow in course o' travel--

"'In furrin pearts?' sez she.

"'Yes,' sez I--'I kim across a great instrument,' sez I. 'It was well
known to the wimen and ladies o' the past gin-i-rations,' sez I.

"'The an-shants?' sez she.

"'Yes, marm,' sez I. Then she axed me wether it wer a wind instrer-ment
or a stringed instrer-ment. A-n-d I told her it wer a stringed
instrer-ment, but went on the hurdy-gurdy pren-cipl', with a crank or
treddle. But what I moost dwelt on, as the ox-ion-eer sez, were the
great combinations of the instrer-ment, a-n-d I piled it up
dre-e-e-adful! I told the marm I wanted to git the thing patented, and
put before the people--the wimen and ladies in per-tick'ler--so that
every gal in the univarsal world could play upon it--exercise her hands,
strengthen her arms and chist, give her form a nater-al de-welop-ment,
and so make the hull grist o' wimen critters useful, as well as
or-namental, as my instrer-ment was a useful necessity; for while it
lent grace and beauty to the female form, and gin forth fust rate music,
it was par-fect-ly scriptooral; it ceould be made to clothe the naked
and feed the hon-gry. My il-o-quince had the marm. She 'greed to buy one
of my machines _straight_ fur use of her _Institoot_--each school-gal to
'put in' by next day, when I wer to bring the instrer-ment, get my $40,
and deliver a lectoor on it. Next mornin', bright and early, I wer
there; the _puss_ wer made up, and the gals nigh abeout bilin' over with
curiosity to see my wonderful _hand-limberer, arm-strengthener,
chist-expander, female-beautifier, and univarsal musical machine!_ When
they all got assembled, I ondid the machine; they wer still as death!
When I sot it up, they wer breathless with wonderment; when I started
it, they gin a gineral screech of delight. Then I sot deown and played
'em _old hund'erd_, and every gal in the room vowed right eout she'd
have one made _straight!_ O-o-o! yeou'd a died to seen the excitement
that instrer-ment made in Jargon Institoot. The head marm wanted my
ortergraff, and each o' the gals a lock o' my hair. But just then, a
confeounded ole woolly-headed Virginny <DW65> wench, cook o' the Jargon
Institoot, kem in, and the moment she clapped her ole eyes on my
inwention, she roared reight eout, 'O! de _Lud_, ef dar ain't one de ole
Virginny _spinnin' wheels!_' I kinder had bus'ness somewheres else
'beout that time! I took with a leaving!"




A Dreadful State of Excitement.


A retrospective view of some ten or fifteen years, brings up a wonderful
"heap of notions," which at their birth made quite a different sensation
from that which their "bare remembrance" would seem to sanction now. The
statement made in a "morning paper" before us, of a fine horse being
actually scared stone and instantaneously dead, by a roaring and hissing
locomotive, brings to mind "a circumstance," which though it did not
exactly _do our knitting_, it came precious near the climax!

Some years ago, upon what was then considered the "frontier" of
Missouri, we chanced to be laid up with a "game leg," in consequence of
a performance of a bullet-headed mule that we were endeavoring to coerce
at the end of a corn stalk, for his "intervention" in a fodder stack to
which he could lay no legitimate claim. About two miles from our
"lodgings" was a store, a "grocery," shotecary pop, boots, hats,
gridirons, whiskey, powder and shot, &c., &c., and the post office.
About three times a week, we used to hobble down to this modern ark, to
read the news, see what was going on down in the world, and--pass a few
hours with the proprietor of the store, who chanced to be a man with
whom we had had a former acquaintance "in other climes." Well, one day,
we dropped down to the store, and found pretty much all the men
folks--and they were not numerous around there, the houses or cabins
being rather scattering--getting ready to go down the river (Missouri)
some ten miles, to see a notorious desperado "stretch hemp." My friend
Captain V----, the storekeeper, was about to go along too, and proposed
that we should mount and accompany him, or--stay and tend store. We
accepted the latter proposition, as we were in no travelling kelter, and
had no taste for performances on the tight rope. Having officiated for
Captain V---- on several former occasions, we had the run of his
"grocery" and _postal_ arrangements quite fluent enough to take charge
of all the trade likely to turn up that day; so the captain and his
friends started, promising a return before sunset.

One individual, living some seven miles up the road, called for his
newspaper, and got his jug filled, spent a couple of hours with us--put
out, and was succeeded by two squalid Indians, with some skins to trade
for corn juice and tobacco; they cleared out, and about two or three P.
M., some _movers_ came along; we had a little dicker with them, and that
closed up the business accounts of the day.

Having discussed all the availables, from the contents of the post
office--seven newspapers and four letters per quarter!--to the crackers
and cheese, and business being essentially stagnated, we ups and lies
down upon the top of the counter, to take a nap. Captain V----'s store
was a log building, about 15 by 30, and stood near the edge of the
woods, and at least half a mile from any habitation, except the
schoolhouse and blacksmith's shop, two small huts, and at that time--"in
coventry." Captain V---- was a bachelor; he boarded--that is, he took
his meals at the nearest house--half a mile back from the wood, and
slept in his store. We soon fell into the soft soothing arms of
Morpheus, and--slept. It was fine mild weather--September, and, of
course, the door was wide open. How long we slept we were not at all
conscious, but were aroused by a heavy hand that gave us a hearty shake
by the shoulder, and in a rather sepulchral voice says--

"How are you?"

Gods! we were up quick, for our sleep had been visited by dreams of
southwest tragedies, hanging scrapes, and other nightmare affairs, and
as we opened our eyes and caught a glimpse of the double-fisted,
cadaverous fellow standing over us, a strong inclination to go off into
a cold sweat seized us! Lo! it was after sunset! Almost dark in the
store, the stars had already began to twinkle in the sky.

Captain V---- did a considerable trade at his store, and at times had
considerable sums of money laying around. Upon leaving in the morning,
he notified us, in case we should require _change_, to look into the
desk, where he kept a shot bag of silver coin, and--his pistols.

"How are you?" the words and manner and looks of the man gave us a cold
chill.

"How do you do?" we managed to respond, at the same time sliding down
behind the counter. The stranger had a heavy walking stick in his hand,
and a knapsack looking bundle swung to his shoulder. He looked like the
rough remnants of an ill-spent life; had evidently travelled somewhere
where barbers, washer-women and such like civilian delicacies, were more
matters of tradition than fact.

"Been asleep, eh?" he carelessly continued.

"It appears so," said we, feeling no better or more satisfactory in our
mind, and no reason to, for night was now closing in, and we were going
through our performances by the slight illumination of the stars,
without any positive certainty as to where the Captain kept his tinder
box and candle, that we might furnish some sort of light upon the
lugubrious state of affairs.

"Do you keep this store?"

"No, we do not," we answered, watching the man as he put his bundle down
upon the counter.

"Who does?" was the next question.

"The gentleman who keeps it," we replied, "is away to-day."

"Ah, gone to see a poor human being put out of the world, eh?"

We said "yes," or something of the kind, and thought to ourself, no
doubt you know all that's going on of that sort of business like a book,
and a host of other ideas flashed across our mind, while all the evil
deeds of note transacted in that region for the past ten years, seemed
awakened in our mind's eye, working up our nervous system, until the
<DW53> skin cap upon our excited head stood upon about fifteen hairs, with
the strange and overwhelming impression that our time had come! We would
have given the State of Missouri--if it were in our possession, to have
heard Captain V----'s voice, or even have had a fair chance to dash out
at the door, and give the fellow before us a specimen of tall
walking--lame as we were!

"Ain't you got a _light_? I'd think you'd be a little timid (a _little_
timid!) about laying around here, alone, in the dark, too?" said the
fellow, sticking one hand into his coat pocket, and gazing sharply
around the store. Mock heroically says we--

"Afraid? Afraid of what?" our valor, like Bob Acres', oozing out at our
fingers.

"These outlaws you've got around here," said he. "They say the man they
hanged to-day was a decent fellow to what some are, who prowl around in
this country!"

We very modestly said, "that such fellows never bothered us."

"Do you sleep in this store--live here?"

"No, sir, we don't," was our answer.

"Where do you lodge and get your eating?"

"First house up the road."

"How far is it?" says he.

"Half a mile or less."

"Well, close up your shop, and come along with me!" says the fellow.

Now we were coming to the _tableaux!_ He wanted us to step outside in
order that the business could be done for us, with more haste and
certainty, and we really felt as good as assassinated and hid in the
bushes! It was quite astonishing how our visual organs intensified! We
could see every wrinkle and line in the fellow's face, could almost
count the stitches in his coat, and the more we looked, and the keener
and more searching became our observation, the more atrocious and subtle
became the fellow and his purpose. With a firmness that astonished
ourself, we said--

"_No, Sir_; if _you_ have business there or elsewhere, you had better
_go!_" and with this determined speech, we walked up to the desk, and
with the air of a "man of business" or the nonchalance of a hero, says
we--

"What are you after--have you any business with _us_?"

"You're kind of crusty, Mister," says he. "I'm canvassing this
State,--_wouldn't you like to subscribe for a first-rate map of
Missouri_, OR A NEW EDITION OF JOSEPHUS?"

We felt too mean all over to "subscribe," but we found a light, and soon
found in the stranger one of the best sort of fellows, a man of
information and morality, and, though he had _looked_ dangerous, he
turned out harmless as a lamb, and we got intimate as brothers before
Captain V---- returned that night.




Ralph Waldo Emerson.


Of all the public lecturers of our time and place, none have attracted
more attention from the press, and consequently the people, than RALPH
WALDO EMERSON.

Lecturing has become quite a fashionable science--and now, instead of
using the old style phrases for illustrating facts, we call travelling
preachers perambulating showmen, and floating politicians, _lecturers_.

As a lecturer, Ralph Waldo Emerson is extensively known around these
parts; but whether his lectures come under the head of law, logic,
politics, Scripture, or the show business, is a matter of much
speculation; for our own part, the more we read or hear of Ralph, the
more we don't know what it's all about.

Somebody has said, that to his singularity of style or expression,
Carlyle and his works owe their great notoriety or fame--and many
compare Ralph Waldo to old Carlyle. They cannot trace exactly any great
affinity between these two great geniuses of the flash literary school.
Carlyle writes vigorously, quaintly enough, but almost always speaks
when he says something; on the contrary, our flighty friend Ralph speaks
vigorously, yet says nothing! Of all men that have ever stood and
delivered in presence of "a reporter," none surely ever led these
indefatigable knights of the pen such a wild-goose chase over the
verdant and flowery pastures of King's English, as Ralph Waldo Emerson.
In ordinary cases, a reporter well versed in his art, catches a sentence
of a speaker, and goes on to fill it out upon the most correct
impression of what was intended, or what is implied. But no such
license follows the outpourings of Mr. Emerson; no thought can fathom
his intentions, and quite as bottomless are even his finished sentences.
We have known "old stagers," in the newspaporial line, veteran
reporters, so dumbfounded and confounded by the first fire of Ralph, and
his grand and lofty acrobating in elocution, that they up, seized their
hat and paper, and sloped, horrified at the prospect of an attempt to
"take down" Mr. Emerson.

If Roaring Ralph touches a homely mullen weed, on a donkey heath,
straightway he makes it a full-blown rose, in the land of Ophir,
shedding an odor balmy as the gales of Arabia; while with a facility the
wonderful London auctioneer Robbins might envy, Ralph imparts to a
lime-box, or pig-sty, a <DW64> hovel, or an Irish shanty, all the
romance, artistic elegance and finish of a first-class manor-house, or
Swiss cottage, inlaid with alabaster and fresco, surrounded by elfin
bowers, grand walks, bee hives, and honeysuckles.

Ralph don't group his metaphorical beauties, or dainties of Webster,
Walker, &c., but rushes them out in torrents--rattles them down in
cataracts and avalanches--bewildering, astounding, and incomprehensible.
He hits you upon the left lug of your knowledge box with a metaphor so
unwieldy and original, that your breath is soon gone--and before it is
recovered, he gives you another _rhapsody_ on t'other side, and as you
try to steady yourself, _bim_ comes another, heavier than the first two,
while a fourth batch of this sort of elocution fetches you a bang over
the eyes, giving you a vertigo in the ribs of your bewildered senses,
and before you can say "God bless us!" down he has you--_cobim!_ with a
deluge of high-heeled grammar and three-storied Anglo Saxon, settling
your hash, and brings you to the ground by the run, as though you were
struck by lightning, or in the way of a 36-pounder! Ralph Waldo is death
and an entire _stud_ of pale horses on flowery expressions and
japonica-domish flubdubs. He revels in all those knock-kneed, antique,
or crooked and twisted words we used all of us to puzzle our brains over
in the days of our youth, and grammar lessons and rhetoric exercises. He
has a penchant as strong as cheap boarding-house butter, for
mystification, and a free delivery of hard words, perfectly and
unequivocally wonderful. We listened one long hour by the clock of
Rumford Hall, one night, to an outpouring of _argumentum ad hominem_ of
Mr. Emerson's--at what? A boy under an apple tree! If ten persons out of
the five hundred present were put upon their oaths, they could no more
have deciphered, or translated Mr. Ralph's argumentation, than they
could the hieroglyphics upon the walls of Thebes, or the sarcophagus of
old King Pharaoh! When Ralph Waldo opens, he may be as calm as a May
morn--he may talk for five minutes, like a book--we mean a
common-sensed, understandable book; but all of a sudden the fluid will
strike him--up he goes--down he fetches them. He throws a double
somerset backwards over Asia Minor--flip-flaps in Greece--wings
Turkey--and _skeets_ over Iceland; here he slips up with a flower
garden--a torrent of gilt-edged metaphors, that would last a country
parson's moderate demand a long lifetime, are whirled with the fury and
fleetness of Jove's thunderbolts. After exhausting his sweet-scented
receiver of this floral elocution, he pauses four seconds; pointing to
vacuum, over the heads of his audience, he asks, in an anxious tone, "Do
you see that?" Of course the audience are not expected to be so
unmannerly as to ask "What?" If they were, Ralph would not give them
time to "go in," for after asking them if they see _that_, he
continues--

"There! Mark! Note! It is a malaria prism! Now, then; here--there; see
it! Note it! Watch it!"

During this time, half of the audience, especially the old women and the
children, look around, fearful of the ceiling falling in, or big bugs
lighting on them. But the pause is for a moment, and anxiety ceases when
they learn it was only a false alarm, only--

"Egotism! The lame, the pestiferous exhalation or concrete malformation
of society!"

You breathe freer, and Ralph goes in, gloves on.

"Egotism! A metaphysical, calcareous, oleraceous amentum of--society!
The mental varioloid of this sublunary hemisphere! One of its worst
feelings or features is, the craving of sympathy. It even loves
sickness, because actual pain engenders signs of sympathy. All
cultivated men are infected more or less with this dropsy. But they are
still the leaders. The life of a few men is the life of every place. In
Boston you hear and see a few, so in New York; then you may as well die.
Life is very narrow. Bring a few men together, and under the spell of
one calm genius, what frank, sad confessions will be made! Culture is
the suggestion from a few best thoughts that a man should not be a
charlatan, but temper and subdue life. Culture redresses his balance,
and puts him among his equals. It is a poor compliment always to talk
with a man upon his _specialty_, as if he were a cheese-mite, and was
therefore strong on Cheshire and Stilton. Culture takes the grocer out
of his molasses and makes him genial. We pay a heavy price for those
fancy goods, Fine Arts and Philosophy. No performance is worth loss of
geniality. That unhappy man called of genius, is an unfortunate man.
Nature always carries her point despite the means!"

If that don't convince you of Ralph's high-heeled, knock-kneed logic, or
_au fait_ dexterity in concocting flap-doodle mixtures, you're ahead of
ordinary intellect as far as this famed lecturer is in advance of gin
and bitters, or opium discourses on--delirium tremens!

In short, Ralph Waldo Emerson can wrap up a subject in more mystery and
science of language than ever a defunct Egyptian received at the hands
of the mummy manufacturers! In person, Mr. Ralph is rather a pleasing
sort of man; in manners frank and agreeable; about forty years of age,
and a native of Massachusetts. As a lawyer, he would have been the
horror of jurors and judges; as a lecturer, he is, as near as possible,
what we have described him.




Humbug.


There is no end to the humbug in life. About half we say, and more than
half we do, is tinged with humbug. "My Dear Sir," we say, when we
address a letter to a fellow we have never seen, and if seen, perhaps
don't care a continental cent for him; _dear_ sir! what a humbug
expression! "Good morning," (what a lie!) says one, as he meets another
_one_, on a stormy and nasty day, "quite a disagreeable wet day!" What's
the use of such a humbug expression as that? If it's a disagreeable and
stormy day, every body finds it out, naturally. Full half of the people
who appear solicitous about your _health_, display a gratuitous amount
of humbug, for your pocket-book is more beloved than your health; and we
have often wondered why matter-of-fact people don't out with it, when
they meet, and say--"How's your pocket to-day? Sorry to hear you're out
of _money!_" Or, instead of soft soap, when they meet, why not discard
humbug, and say, "Sorry to see you--was blackguarding you all day!"
instead of "Glad to see you--have been _thinking_ of you to-day!" or,
"I'm glad to see you've been elected Mayor of the city!" when in fact
they mean, "Curse you, I wish you had been defeated!" Compliments
_pass_, they say, when _gentlemen_ meet, but, as there are so many
counterfeit gentry around, now-a-days, you may bet high that half the
_compliments_ that _pass_ are--_mere bogus!_




Hotel Keeping.


Fortunes are made--very readily, it is said, in our large cities, by
Hotel keeping. It does look money-making business to a great many
people, who stop in a large hotel a day or two, and perhaps, after
eating about two meals out of six--walking in quietly and walking out
quietly--no fuss, no feathers, find themselves _taxed_ four or five
dollars!

We have had occasion to know something of travel and travellers, hotels,
hotel-keepers and their bills, and it _has_ now and then entered our
head that money was or could be made--in the hotel business. We _have_
stopped in houses where we honestly concluded--we got our money's worth,
and we have again had reason to believe ourselves grossly shaved, in a
"first-class" hotel, at two dollars a day--all hurry-scurry, poked up in
the cock-loft, mid bugs, dirt, heat and effluvia, very little better
than a Dutch tavern in fly time.

We did not fail to observe at the same time, that cool impudence and
clamor had a most mollifying effect upon landlord and his _attaches_,
the tinsel and mere electrotypes passing for real bullion, galvanized
_hums_ by their noise and pretensions faring fifty per cent. better for
the same _price_--than the more republican, quiet and human wayfarer.

Under such auspices, it is not at all wonderful that ourself and scores
of others, paying two dollars and a half per diem, got what we could
catch, while Kossuth, and a score of his followers, fared and were
favored like princes of a monarchical realm--"though all _dead heads!_"

Hotels now-a-days must be _showy_, abounding in tin foil, Dutch metal
and gamboge, a thousand of the "modern improvements"--mere clap-trap,
and as foreign to the solid comforts of solid people, as icebergs to
Norwegians or "east winds" to the consumptive. Without the show, they
would be quite deserted; men will pay for this _show_, must pay for it,
and all this show costs money; Turkey carpets, life-size mirrors,
ottomans and marble slabs, from dome to kitchen, _draw well_, and those
who indulge in the dance, must pay the piper.

The fact is, most people understand these things about as well as we do,
and it but remains for us to give a daguerreotype of a _few customers_
which landlords or their clerks and servants now and then meet. The
conductor of one of our first-class houses, gives us such a truly
piquant and matter-of-fact picture of _his_ experience, that we _up_ and
copy it, believing, as we do, that the reader will see some information
and amusement in the subject.

A fussy fellow takes it into his head that he will go on a little tour,
he pockets a few dollars and a clean dickey or two, and--comes to town.
He's no green horn--O! no, he ain't, he has been around some--he has,
and knows a thing or two, and something over. He is dumped out of the
cars with hundreds of others, in the great depots, and is assailed by
vociferous _whips_ who, in quest of stray dimes, watch the incoming
_trains_ and shout and bawl--

"Eh 'up! Tremont House!"

"Up--_a!_ American House--right away!"

"Ha! _up!_ Right off for the Revere!"

"Here's the coach--already for the United States!"

"Yee 'up! now we go, git in, best house in town, all ready for the
Winthrop House!"

"Eh 'up, _ha!_ now we are off, for the Pavilion!"

"Exchange Coffee House--dollar a day, four meals, no extra charge--right
along this way, sir!"

"Hoo-_ray_, this coach--take you right up, Exchange Hotel!"

"Jump in, tickets for your baggage, sir, take you up--right off, best
house in town, hot supper waitin'--way for the Adams House!"

And so they yell and grab at you, and our fussy friend, having heard of
the tall arrangements and great doings of the _American_, he hands
himself over to the coachman, and with a load of others he is rolled
over to that institution, in a jiffy. Our fussy friend is slightly "took
down" at the idea of paying for the hauling up, having a notion that
that was a part of the accommodation! However, he ain't a going to look
small or verdant; so he pays the coachman, grabs his valise, and rushes
into the long colonnaded office; and making his way to the _register_,
slams down his baggage, and in a dignified, authoritative manner, says--

"A room!"

"Yes, sir," responds the Colonel, or some of the clerks--who may be
officiating.

"Supper!" says Capt. Fussy, in the same tone of command.

"Certainly, sir--please register your name, sir!"

Captain Fussy off's gloves, seizes the pen, and down goes his autograph,
Captain Fussy, Thumperstown, N. H.

"Now, I want a hot steak!" says he.

"You can have it, sir!" blandly replies the Colonel.

"Hot chocolate," continues Fussy.

"Certainly, sir!"

"Eggs, poached, and a--hot roll!"

"They'll be all ready, sir."

"How soon?"

"Five minutes, sir," says the Colonel, talking to a dozen at the same
time.

"Ah, well--show me my room!" says Captain Fussy.

The bells are ringing--servants running to and fro, like witches in a
whirlwind; fifty different calls--tastes--orders and fancies, are being
served, but Capt. Fussy is attended to, a servant seizes his valise and
a taper, and in the most winning way, cries--

"This way, sir, _right along!_" With a measured tread and the air of a
man who knew what it was all about, the Captain follows the _garcon_ and
mounts one flight of the broad stairs, and is about to ascend another,
when it strikes him that he's not going up to the top of the house,
nohow!

"Where are you going to take me to--up into the garret?"

"Oh! no, sir; your room's only 182; that's only on the third floor!"

"Third floor!" cries Capt. Fussy, "take _me_ up into the third story?"

"Plenty of gentlemen on the fifth and sixth floors, sir," says the
servant, and he goes ahead, Capt. Fussy following, muttering--

"Pooty doin's this, taking a _gentleman_ up three of these cussed long
stairs, to room 182! I'll see about this, I will; mus'n't come no gammon
over me; I'm able to pay, and want the worth of my money!"

The third floor is reached, and after a brief meandering along the
halls, 182 is arrived at, the door thrown open and Capt. Fussy is
ushered in; his first effort is to find fault with the carpets,
furniture, bedding or something, but as he had never probably seen such
a general arrangement for ease, comfort and convenience--he caved in and
merely gave a deep-toned--

"_Ah._ Got better rooms than this, ain't you?"

"There may be, sir, a few better rooms in the house, not many," said the
servant.

"Well, you may go--but stop--how soon'll my supper be ready?"

"There'll be a supper set at eight, another at nine, sir."

"Ah, four minutes of eight," says Fussy, pulling out a "bull's eye"
watch, with as much flourish as if it was a premium eighteen-_carat
lever_. "Well, call me when you've got supper ready, do you hear?"

"Yes, sir; but you'll hear the gong."

"The gong--what's that? Ain't you got no bells?"

"The gong is used, sir, instead of bells," says the servant.

"_Ah_, well, clear out--but say, I want a fire in here."

"Yes, sir; I'll send up a fireman."

"A fireman? What do I want with _firemen_? Bring in some wood, and,
stranger--start up--a hello! thunder and saw mills, what's all that
racket about--house a-fire?"

"No, _sir!_" says the grinning servant--"the _gong_--supper's on the
table!"

"_Ah_, very well; go ahead; where's the room?"

Conducted to the dining-room, Capt. Fussy's eyes stretch at the
wholesale display of table-cloths, arm-chairs, "crockery" and cutlery,
mirrors and white-aproned waiters. A seat is offered him, he dumps
himself down, amazed but determined to look and act like one used to
these affairs, from the hour of his birth!

"I ordered hot steak, poached eggs--hain't you got 'em?"

"Certainly, sir!" says the waiter, and the steak and eggs are at hand.

"Coffee or tea, sir?" another servant inquires.

"Coffee and tea! Humph, I ordered chocolate--hain't you got chocolate?"

"Oh, yes, sir; there it is."

"_Ah_, umph!" and Fussy gazes around and turns his nose slightly up, at
the whole concern, waiters, guests, table, steak, eggs, chocolate,
and--even the tempting hot rolls--before him.

Fussy calls for a glass of water, wants to know if there's fried oysters
on the table; he finds there is not, and Fussy frowns and asks for a
lobster salad, which the waiter informs him is never used at supper, in
that hotel.

Eventually, Capt. Fussy being _crammed_, after an hour's diligent
feeding, fuss and feathers, retires, asks all sorts of questions about
people and places, at the _office_; what time trains start and steamers
come, omnibuses here and stages there, all of which he is politely
answered, of course, and he finally goes to his room, rings his bell
every ten minutes, for an hour, and then--goes to bed; next day puts the
servants and clerks over another course, and on the third day--calls for
his bill, finds but few extras charged, hands over a _five_, puts on his
gloves, seizes his valise, looks savagely dignified and stalks out, big
as two military officers in regimentals!

"_Ah_," says Fussy, as he reaches the street, "_I_ put 'em through--_I
guess I got the worth of my money!_"

We calculate he did!




"According to Gunter."


Old Gunter was going home t'other night with a very heavy "turkey
on"--about a forty-four pounder. Gunter accused the pavements of being
icy, and down he came--_kerchug!_ A "young lady" coming along,
fidgetting and finiking, she made a very sudden and opposite _ricochet_,
on seeing Gunter feeling the ground, and making abortive attempts to
"riz." Gunter's gallantry was "up;" he knew his own weakness, and saw
the difficulty with the "young lady;" so making a very determinate
effort to get on his pins, Gunter elevated his head and then his voice,
and says he: "My de-dea-dear ma'm, do-do-don't pu-pu-put yourself out of
th-th-the way, on my account!" Tableaux--"young lady" quick-step, and
Gunter playing all-fours in the _mud!_




Quartering upon Friends.


City-bred people have a pious horror of the country in winter, and no
great regard for country visitors at any time, however much they may
"let on" to the contrary.

In rushing hot weather, when the bricks and mortar, the stagnated,
oven-like air of the crowded city threatens to bake, parboil, or give
the "citizens" the yellow fever, then we are very apt to think of plain
Aunt Polly, rough-hewed Uncle John, and the bullet-headed, uncombed,
smock-frocked cousins, nephews, and nieces, at their rural homes, amid
the fragrant meadows and umbrageous woods; the cool, silver streams and
murmuring brooks of the glorious country. Then, the poetic sunbeams and
moonshine of fancy bring to the eye and heart all or a part of the
glories and beauties, uses and purposes in which God has invested the
ruraldom.

Now, our country friends are mostly desirous, candidly so, to have their
city friends come and see them--not merely pop visits, but bring your
whole family, and stay a month! This they may do, and will do, and can
afford it, as it is more convenient to one's pocket-book, on a farm, to
_quarter_ a platoon of your friends than to perform the same operation
in the city, where it is apt to give your purse the tick-dollar-owe in
no time.

It was not long since, during the prevalence of a hot summer, that Mrs.
Triangle one morning said to her stewing husband, who was in no wise
troubled with a surplus of the circulating medium--

"Triangle, it's on-possible for us to keep the children well and quiet
through this dreadful hot weather. We must go into the country. The
Joneses and Pigwigginses and Macwackinses, and--and--everybody has gone
out into the country, and we must go, too; why can't we?"

"Why can't we?" mechanically echoed Triangle, who just then was deeply
absorbed in a problem as to whether or not, considering the prices of
coal, potatoes, house-rents, leather, and "dry goods," he would fetch up
in prison or the poor-house first! It was a momentous question, and to
his wife's proposal of a fresh detail of domestic expense, Triangle
responded--

"Why can't we?"

"Yes, that's what I'd like to know--why can't _we_?"

"We _can't_, Mrs. Triangle," decidedly answered her lord and master.

Now Mrs. T., being but a woman, very naturally went on to give Mr. T. a
Caudle lecture half an hour long, winding up with one of those
time-honored perquisites of the female sex--a good cry.

Poor Triangle put on his hat and marched down to his bake-oven of an
"office," to plan business and smoke his cigar. Triangle came home to
tea, and saw at a glance that something must be done. Mrs. Triangle was
to be "compromised," or far hotter than even the hot, hot weather would
be his domicile for the balance of the season. Triangle thought it over,
as he nibbled his toast and sipped his hot Souchong.

"My dear," said he, pushing aside his cup, and tilting himself upon the
"hind legs" of his chair--"business is very dull, the weather is
intolerable, I know you and the children would be much benefitted by a
trip into the country--why can't we go?"

"Why can't we?--that's what I'd like to know!" was the ready response of
Mrs. T.

"Well, we can go. My friend Jingo has as fine a place in the country as
ever was, anywhere; he has asked me again and again to come down in the
summer, and bring all the family. Now we'll go; Jingo will be delighted
to see us; and we'll have a good, pleasant time, I'll warrant."

Mrs. Triangle was delighted; soon all the clouds of her temper were
dispersed, and like people "cut out for each other," Triangle and his
wife sat and planned the details of the tour to Jingo Hill Farm.
Frederic Antonio Gustavus was to be rigged out in new boots, hat, and
breeches. Maria Evangeline Roxana Matilda was to be fitted out in Polka
boots, gipsey bonnet, and Bloomer pantalettes, with an entire invoice of
handkerchiefs, scarfs, ribbons, gloves, and hosiery for "mother," little
Georgiana Victorine Rosa Adelaide, and _the baby_, Henry Rinaldo
Mercutio. After three days' onslaught upon poor Triangle's pockets, with
any quantity of "fuss and feathers," Mrs. Triangle pronounced the
caravan ready to move. But just as all was ready, Bridget Durfy, the
maid-of-all-work, who was to accompany them on the expedition as
supervisor of the children, threw up her engagement.

"Plaze the pigs," said Biddy; "it's mesilf as niver likes the counthry,
at all; an' I'll jist be afther not goin', ma'm, wid yez!"

Here was a go--or rather a "no go!" Triangle had bought tickets for all,
and ordered the carriage at four; it was now three P. M., of a hot,
roasting day. It would be "on-possible," as Mrs. T. said, to go without
a girl; so poor, sweltering Triangle rushed down to the "Intelligence
Office," where, from the sweating mass of female humanity awaiting a
market for their time and labor, Triangle selected a stout, hearty Irish
_blonde_, warranted perfect, capable, kind, honest, and the Lord only
knows how many virtues the keeper of an "Intelligence Office" will not
swear belong to one of their stock in trade.

Away went Triangle, sweating and swearing; the Irish maiden, swinging a
bundle in one hand and a flaring _bandanna_ in the other, following
after her patron with a duck-waddle; and finally the carriage came; all
got in but Triangle, who started on foot to the depot, carrying his
double-barrelled gun and leading an ugly dog, which he rejoiced in
believing was a full-blooded _setter_, though the best posted
dog-fanciers assured him it was a cross between a tan-yard cur and a
sheep-stealer! But, after a world of motion and commotion--on the part
of Triangle, about the dog, tickets and baggage, and Mrs. Triangle,
about the children, satchels, her new gown, and the sleepy Irish
girl--they found themselves whisked over the rails, and after some three
hours' carriage, they were dumped down in the vicinity of Jingo Hall,
where they found the "private conveyance" of the proprietor of Jingo
Hill Farm waiting to carry them, bandbox and bundle, rag-tag and
bobtail, to Jingo Hall.

The carriage being overfull, Triangle concluded to walk up, stretch his
legs, try his dog and gun, and have a pop at the game. But, alas, for
the villanous dog; no sooner had he got loose and scampered off up the
road, than he sees a flock of sheep some distance across the fields, and
away he pitched. The sheep ran, he after the sheep; and poor Triangle
after his dog.

"Hay! you Ponto--here--hay--Ponto-o-o! Hey, boy, come here, you dog--hi!
hi!--do you hear-r-r?"

But Ponto was off, and after a run of half a mile, he came up with a
lamb, and before Triangle could come to the rescue, Ponto had opened the
campaign by killing sheep! Triangle was so put out about it that in
wrath he up with his gun and was about to terminate the existence of the
dog, but compromised the matter by hitting him a whack across the back
with the barrels of his shooting-iron; in doing so, he broke off the
stock, clean as a whistle! It is useless to deny that Triangle _was_
mad; that he swore equal to an Erie Canal boatman; and that his fury so
alarmed the dog that he took to his heels and went--as Triangle
hoped--anywhere, head foremost.

[Illustration: "With a presence of mind truly unparalleled, she laid
down 'baby' upon the grass, and made fight with 'the spiteful
craturs.'"--_Page_ 169.]

With a face as long as a boot-jack, quite tuckered out and disgusted
with things as far as he had got, Triangle reached Jingo Hall, where he
met the warm welcome of his friend, Major Jingo, and soon recuperated
his good humor and physical activity by the contents of the Major's
"well-stocked" _wine-cellar_. Ashamed of the facts of the case, Triangle
trumped up a cock-and-bull story about the dog and gun.

After a season, the Triangles got settled away, and the first day or two
passed without anything extraordinary turning up, if we may except the
upturning of several flower-pots and hen's nests by the children. But
the third day opened ominously. Triangle's dog was found with one of the
Major's dead lambs under convoy, and the Irish hostler had caught him,
tied him up in the stable, and given him such a dressing that Ponto's
soul-case was nearly beaten out of him!

The next item was a yowl in the garden! Everybody rushed out--Mrs.
Triangle in her excitement, lest something had happened to "baby," and
Nora, the girl, struck the centre-table, upset the "Astral," and not
only demolished that ancient piece of furniture, but spilled enough
thick oil over the gilt-edged literature, table-cloth, and carpet, to
make a barrel of soft soap.

The Irish girl came bounding, screeching forth! She had been sauntering
through the garden, and ran against the bee-hives, when a bee up and at
her. With a presence of mind truly unparalleled, she laid down "baby"
upon the grass, and made fight with "the spiteful craturs;" and of
course she got her hands full, was beset by tens and hundreds, and was
stung in as many places by the pugnacious "divils." Nora was done for.
She went to bed; "baby" was found all right, laughing "fit to break its
yitty hearty party, at naughty Nora Dory," as Mrs. Triangle very
naturally expressed it.

These two tableaux had hardly reached their climax, when in rushed
Frederic Antonio Gustavus, with his capacious apron full of "birds he
killed in the yard, down by the barns." Poor Jingo! and we may add, poor
Mrs. Jingo! for a favorite brood of the finest fowls in the country had
been exterminated by the chivalrous young Triangle, and in the bloom of
his heroic act he dropped the dead game at the feet of his
horror-stricken mother, and astonished father, and the Jingos.

That night the effect of stuffing with green fruit to utter suffocation
manifested itself in a general and alarming cholera-morbus among the
junior Triangles, and the whole house was up in arms.

In the midst of this, a fresh clamor broke out in Nora's chamber. A huge
bat had got into her room, and so alarmed her, that she yelled worse,
louder, and longer than seven evil ones.

It was a night of horror to the whole family--to everybody in and about
Jingo Hall. The dogs set up a howl; the children bawled, cried, and took
on; the Irish girl screeched; gin and laudanum, peppermint and
"lollypops," the de'il to pay and no pitch hot.

Triangle felt relieved when daylight came, and had it not been Sunday,
he would have packed up and put back for the prosy office and stagnated
quietude of the city. But it was Sunday, and after the children, Irish
girl, and dogs had been partially quieted, down the carriage came to the
door, and as many as could get into it of the Jingos and Triangles,
rolled off to meeting.

Triangle and Jingo went to escape the din and noise of dressing "the
babies," &c.; and after the service was over, poor Triangle was taken
aside by a tall, bony man, who reported himself in no very ceremonious
manner as the proprietor of a flock of sheep scared to death, and one
rare lamb killed--"by your dog!" Triangle owned to the soft impeachment,
and "compromised" for a V.

Returned to Jingo Hall, another _coup d'etat_ all around the lot had
broken out. Evangeline Roxana Matilda Triangle had disappeared. The
baby, Georgiana Victorine Rosa Adelaide, had fallen from a swing in the
grove and dislocated her wrist, and flattened her pretty nose quite to
her pretty face. Baby was very ill, and from the groans issuing from
Nora's attic, it was not _on-possible_ that she was sick as she could
be. A general search took place for Evangeline Roxana Matilda, while
Maj. Jingo mounted a horse and rode over to the village, to bring down a
doctor for Georgiana Victorine Rosa Adelaide, "the baby," and--Nora
Dougherty.

A glance at the Irish girl convinced poor _tried_ Triangle that she was
a case--of small-pox.

Maj. Jingo returned, but without a medical adviser; the village
Esculapius having gone off to the city. Things looked gloomy enough.
Triangle felt "chawed up," and wished he had been roasted alive in the
city before venturing upon such a trip. But he felt he had a duty to
perform, and he determined to put it through.

"Major, I'm very sorry, but the fact is"----

"Never mind, never mind, my dear fellow--no trouble to us."

"But," chokingly continued poor Triangle, "but, Major, the fact is,
I--a--you've got a large family"----

"Never mind, my dear boy; don't say any more about it."

"But to have the--a--the--small-pox"----

"What?" gasped the Major--"the--a"----

"Small-pox!" seriously enough responded Triangle.

"Small-pox! Who? Where?"

"Our Irish girl--up stairs--awful!"

"O, good Lord! Irish--up stairs--small-pox!" reiterated the really
alarmed proprietor of Jingo Hall.

"I wouldn't have"--said Triangle.

"The small-pox in my house"--echoed Jingo.

"For all the blessed countries in the world!" passionately exclaimed
Triangle.

"Heavens!" exclaimed the Major; "my wife has a greater dread of
small-pox than yellow fever, or death itself!"

"What's to be done?" said poor Triangle.

"Remove the girl to an out-house, instantly!" said the Major, pacing up
and down, in great _furore_.

"That's best, Major; go move her, at once."

"Me? Me move her, sir?" said Jingo.

"Why who will, Major?" responded Triangle.

"Who? Why, you, of course."

"Me?" exclaimed Triangle--"me? endanger my life, and the lives of all my
family--me? No, sir, I'll--I'll--I'll be hanged if I do!"

"Blur a' nouns, zur!" bawled the Irish hostler, as he came trotting up
to the front veranda, where Triangle and Jingo were discussing the
transportation of small-pox--

"Blur a' nouns--the dog's loose!"

"Curse the dog!" said the Major.

"But, zur, it's raving mad, he is!"

"Mad! my dog?" cries Triangle.

"A mad dog, too!" exclaims the Major, in horror.

"O, too bad--horrible--wish I'd never seen"----

"Get your gun, quick--come on!" cried the Major.

"But, my dear Major, my gun's broke all to smash. O! that I had shot the
blasted brute instead of breaking my gun!"

"Come on--never mind--seize a club, fork, or anything, and hunt around
for the cursed dog. He'll bite some of our people, horses, or cattle."
And away ran the Major, with a bit of stick about the size of a
fence-rail. Paddy made himself scarce, and Triangle, in agony, flew
around to hunt up his daughter, whom they found asleep in a
summer-house.

Mrs. Major Jingo, when she heard that the Irish girl had introduced the
small-pox on Jingo Hill, liked to have fainted away; but, conquering her
weakness, she ordered the carriage, and bundled herself and four
children into it, so full of terror and alarm that she never so much as
said--"Take care of yourself, Mrs. Triangle!" Maj. Jingo returned, after
a fruitless search for Triangle's mad dog, and just as he entered the
hall, the Irish girl came rushing down stairs, crying--

"O! murther, murther! I'm dead as a door-nail, entirely, wid dese pains
in my face. Be gorra! O, murther!"

One look at the swollen and truly frightful face of the girl put the
Major to his _taps_; and stopping but a moment to tell Triangle to make
out the best he could, he left.

Next morning, bag and baggage, the Triangles _vamosed_. The poor girl
having recovered from her attack of the bees, which had led to the alarm
of small-pox, looked quite respectable. Never did a party enjoy _home_
more completely than the Triangles after that. Triangle has a holy
horror of trips to the country, and the Jingos are down on visitors from
the city.




Jake Hinkle's Failings.


In the village of Washington, Fayette Co., Ohio, there was a transient
sort of a personage, a kind of floating farmer, named Hinkle,--Jacob
Hinkle,--commonly called _Old Jake Hinkle_. Jake was, originally, a
Dutchman, a Pennsylvania, Lancaster County Dutchman; and that was about
_as_ Dutch as Holland and Sour Krout could well make a human "critter."
Well, Jake Hinkle owned, or had squatted on, a small patch of land, just
beyond old Mother Rodger's "bottom," that is, about a mile east of the
"Rattle Snake Fork" of Paint Creek, which, every thundering fool out
West knows, empties itself into--"Big Paint," which finally rolls out
into the Muskingum, and thence into the Ohio. Very well, having settled
the geographical position of Jake Hinkle, let me go on to state what
kind of a critter Jake was, and how it came about that he was pronounced
dead, one cold morning, and how he came up to town and denied the
assertion.

Jake Hinkle loved corn, lived on it, as most people do in the interior
of Ohio and Kentucky; he loved _corn_, but loved corn whiskey more, and
this love, many a time, brought Jake up to "the Court House" of
Washington, through rain, hail and snow, to get a nipper, fill his jug,
and go home. Now, in the West it is a custom more honored in the breach
than in the observance, perhaps, for grog shops of the village to play
all sorts of fantastic tricks upon old codgers who come up to town, or
down to town, hitch their horses to the fence, and there let the
"critters" stand, from 10 A. M. to 12 P. M., more or less, and longer.
The most popular dodge is, to shave the horse's tail, turn it loose,
and let it go home. Of course, _that_ horse is not soon seen in the
village again, as a horse with a shored tail is about the meanest thing
to look at, except a singed possum, or a dandy--you ever did see.

One very cold night, in January, '39, Jake Hinkle came down to the
"Court House," hitched his horse to the Court Square fence, and made a
straight bend for Sanders' "Grocery," and began to "wood up." Old Jake's
tongue was a perfect bell-clapper, and when well oiled with corn juice,
could rip into the high and low Dutch like a nor'easter into a field of
broom corn. Jake talked and talked, and drank and talked, and about
midnight, the cocks crowing, the stars winking and blinking, and the
wind nipping and whistling around the grocery, Sanders notified Jake and
others that he was going to shut up the concern, and the crowd must be
"putting out." Jake made a break for his nag, but she was gone. "Why,"
says Jake, "she's broke der pridle and gone home, and by skure I shall
walk,"--and off Jake put, through the cold and mud.

Next morning, when the Circleville stage came along between old Marm
Rodger's "bottom," and the Rattle Snake Fork of Paint, the driver
discovered poor old Jake laid out, stiff and cold as a wedge! Alas, poor
old Jake! Gone! Quite a gloom hung over the "grocery;" Jake was an
inoffensive, good old fellow, nobody denied that, and certain young
"fellers" who had shaved the tail of Jake's mare the night previous, and
set her loose, now felt sort of sorry for the deed. The editor of the
"Argus of Freedom" came down to the "grocery," to get his morning "nip,"
heard the news, went back to his office, "set up" Jake's obituary
notice, pitched in a few sorrowful phrases, and then put his paper to
press; that afternoon, the whole edition, of some two hundred copies,
were distributed around among the subscribers and "dead heads," and Jake
Hinkle was pronounced stone dead--_pegged out!_

Two or three days afterwards, a man covered with mud and sweat, came
rushing into Washington. He paused not, nor turned not right or left,
until he found the office of the "Argus of Freedom," where he rushed in,
and confronting the editor, he spluttered forth:--

"You der printer of dish paper,--der noosh paper?"

"Yes," says the 'responsible,' "I am the man," looking a little wild.

"Vell, bine de great Jehosaphat, what for you'n make me deat?"

"Me? Make you dead?" says the no little astonished editor.

"Yaas!" bawled old Jake, for it was he--"You'n tell de people I diet;
_it's a lie!_ And do you neber do it again, and fool de peeples, _witout
you git a written order from me!_"

That editor, ever afterwards, insisted on seeing the funeral before he
recorded an obituary notice.




What's Going to Happen.


In fifty years the steam engine will be as old a notion, and as queer an
invention, as the press Ben. Franklin worked is now. In fifty years,
copper-plate, steel-plate, lithography, and other fine engravings, will
be multiplied for a mere song, in a beautiful manner, by the now
infantile art of _Daguerreotyping_. A passage to California will then be
accomplished in twenty-four hours, by air carriages and electricity; or,
perhaps, they'll go in buckets down Artesian holes, _clean through the
earth!_ The arts of agriculture and horticulture will produce hams ready
roasted, natural pies, baked with all sorts of _cookies_. About that
time, a man may live forever at a cent a day, and sell for all he's
worth at last--for soap fat!




The Washerwoman's Windfall.


Some years ago, there lived, dragged and toiled, in one of our "Middle
States," or Southern cities, and old lady, named Landon, the widow of a
lost sea captain; and as a dernier resort, occurring in many such cases,
with a family of children to provide for,--the father and husband cut
off from life and usefulness, leaving his family but a stone's cast from
indigence,--the mother, to keep grim poverty from famishing her hearth
and desolating her home, took in gentlemen's washing. Her eldest child,
a boy of some twelve years old, was in the habit of visiting the largest
hotels in the city, where he received the finer pieces of the gentlemen's
apparel, and carried them to his mother. They were done up, and returned
by the lad again.

It was in mid-winter, cold and dreary season for the poor--travel was
slack, and few and far between were the poor widow's receipts from her
drudgery.

"To-morrow," said the widow, as she sat musing by her small fire,
"to-morrow is Saturday; I have not a stick of wood, pound of meal, nor
dollar in the world, to provide food or warmth for my children over
Sunday."

"But, mother," responded her 'main prop,' George, the eldest boy, "that
gentleman who gave me the half dollar for going to the bank for him,
last week,--you know him we washed for at the United States Hotel,--said
he was to be here again to-morrow. I was to call for his clothes; so I
will go, mother, to-morrow; maybe he will have another errand for me, or
some money--he's got so much money in his trunk!"

"So, indeed, you said, good child; it's well you thought of it," said
the poor woman.

Next day the lad called at the hotel, and sure enough, the strange
gentleman had arrived again. He appeared somewhat bothered, but quickly
gathering up some of his soiled clothes, gave them to the lad, and bade
him tell his mother to wash and return them that evening by all means.

"Alas! that I cannot do," said the widow, as her son delivered the
message. "My dear child, I have neither fire to dry them, nor money to
procure the necessary fuel."

"Shall I take the clothes back again, mother, and tell the gentleman you
can't dry them in time for him?"

"No, son. I must wash and dry them--we must have money to-day, or we'll
freeze and starve--I must wash and dry these clothes," said the
disconsolate widow, as she immediately went about the performance, while
her son started to a neighboring coopering establishment, to get a
basket of chips and shavings to make fire sufficient to dry and iron the
clothes.

The clothes were duly tumbled into a great tub of water, and the poor
woman began her manipulations. After a time, in handling a vest, the
widow felt a knot of something in the breast pocket. She turned the
pocket, and out fell a little mass of almost pulpy paper. She carefully
unrolled the saturated bunch--she started--stared; the color from her
wan cheeks went and came! Her two little children, observing the wild
looks and strange actions of the mother, ran to her, screaming:

"Dear--dear mother! Mother, what's the matter?"

"Hush-h-h!" said she; "run, dear children--lock the door--lock the door!
no, no, never mind. I a--I a--feel--dizzy!"

The alarmed children clung about the mother's knees in great affright,
but the widow, regaining her composure, told them to sit down and play
with their little toys, and not mind her. The cause of this sudden
emotion was the unrolling of five five hundred dollar bills. They were
very wet--nearly "used up," in fact--but still significant of vast,
astounding import to the poor and friendless woman. She was
amazed--honor and poverty were struggling in her breast. Her poverty
cried out, "You are made up--rich--wash no more--fly!" But then the poor
woman's honor, more powerful than the tempting wealth in her
hands--triumphed! She laid the wet notes in a book, and again set about
her washing.

About this time, quite a different scene was being enacted at the hotel.
The gentleman so anxious that his clothes should be returned that
evening, was no other than a famous counterfeiter and forger; and it
happened, that the day previous, in a neighboring city, he had committed
a forgery, drawn some four or five thousand dollars, had the greater
part of the notes exchanged--and, with the exception of the five large
bills hurriedly thrust into the vest pocket, and which he had sent to
the poor laundress, there was little available evidence of the forgery
in his possession. The widow's son had scarcely left the traveller's
room with the clothes, when in came two policemen. The forger was not
arrested as a principal, but certain barely suspicious circumstances had
led to an investigation of him and his effects.

"You are our prisoner, sir!" said one of the policemen, as a servant
opened the door to let them in.

"Me! What for?" was the quick response of the forger.

"That you will learn in due season; at present we wish to examine your
person and effects."

The forger started--his heart beat with the rapidity of galvanic
pulsation--the evidence of part of his villany was, as he supposed,
among his effects. It was a moment of terror to him, but it passed like
a flash, and in a gay and careless tone, he quickly replied:

"O, very well, gentlemen--go ahead. There are my keys and
baggage--search, and look around. I have no idea what you are
after--probably you'll find." In a low tone, he continued, to himself,
"By heavens, how lucky! that boy has saved me!"

A considerable amount of money was found upon the forger, but none that
could be identified, and after a long and wearisome private examination
at the police court, he was discharged. He returned to the hotel, and
shortly afterwards the lad made his appearance with the clothes,
presenting him with a small roll of damp paper, saying:

"Here, sir, is something mother found in one of your pockets. She thinks
it may be valuable to you, sir, and she is sorry it was wet."

The forger started, as though the little roll of wet money had been a
serpent the lad was holding towards him.

"No, no, my little man; return it to your mother; tell her to dry it
carefully, and that I will call and see her to-night, when she can
return the little parcel."

George stood, his cap in one hand, and the other upon the door-knob; the
man was much agitated, and perceiving the lad lingered, he thrust his
hand into a carpet-bag, and hauling forth an old-fashioned wallet, he
opened it, and taking thence a coin, put it in the hands of the lad and
requested him to run home to his mother and deliver the message
immediately. The lad did as he was ordered; and the poor washerwoman,
the while, sat in her humble and ill-provided home, patiently awaiting
the return of her boy, and fearing the anger of the gentleman at the
hotel, when he should find his bank notes nearly, if not quite
destroyed, would probably so indispose him towards the child that he
would return empty-handed. But no; as the quick tread of the blithesome
lad smote upon the widow's ear, she rushed to the door to receive him.

"Dear son, was the gentleman very angry?"

"Angry, dear mother? No! he was far from angry. He said you must dry
these papers, and he would call to-night for them. And here, dear
mother, he gave me a large piece of beautiful yellow money!" And the
dutiful boy placed a golden doubloon in the trembling hand of the
overjoyed mother. They were saved--the golden coin soon made the widow's
domicil cheerful and happy.

It is almost needless to say, the five notes were not called for. They
laid in the widow's bureau drawer two entire years, when a friend to the
poor woman negotiated for their exchange into a dwelling-house and small
store. And to this little incident does a certain elderly lady and her
family owe their present prosperous and perfectly honorable position in
the respectable society of the city of ----.




We don't Wonder at It.


In the city, we get so many new _kicks_, and put on so many new ways of
living and doing up things, that no wonder the quiet and matter-of-fact
country folks make awkward mistakes, and get mixed up with our
conventionalities, and other doings. Dining at the American, last week,
we sat _vis-a-vis_ with an old-fashioned agricultural gent, whose plate
of mock turtle remained cooling for some time, while he was busy
thinking over a silver four-pronged fork in his hand. At length a broad
smile played over his manly features, as the novel-makers say, and he
opened--

"Well, I'm jiggered!--ha! ha! _they've got to eating soup with split
spoons, too!_"




Old Maguire and his Horse Bonny Doon.


Few animals possess the sagacity of the horse; passive and obedient,
they are easily trained; bring them up the way you want them to go, and
they'll go it! The horse in his old age does not forget the precepts of
his youth. A very touching anecdote is told of a horse, in the cavalry
service of the British army, during Napoleon's time. After the battle of
Waterloo, when the combined force of Europe, through chicanery--not
valor--defeated the greatest soldier the world ever saw, the British
army was cut down, rank and file--Napoleon having promised to "be a good
boy," and let 'em alone in future. Among the _cut offs_, was a troop of
horse, and in this troop was an old veteran Bucephalus, who had stood
and made charges, smelt fire and brimstone, faced phalanxes of bayonets,
and clashed rough-shod over many bloody fields, besides Waterloo,--this
old fellow was turned out to grass--cashiered. When the balance of his
retained companions in saddle were leaving the town where the
dismemberment had taken place, the old war horse was quietly grazing in
a field; the troop passed--the bugler "sounded his horn," and in less
than forty winks the old old horse was up, off, over fences, and in the
front ranks! The tenacity with which he clung to his place in the column
caused--says the historian--the officers and men to shed tears.

So much by way of a prelude. Now for old Maguire and his horse. Some
years ago, in the interior of Ohio, there did live an old Irish
jintleman, who not only had a fine estate, but likewise a saw-mill, and
as fine an old black mare as ever the rays of a noonday's sun lit down
upon. "Bonny Doon," Maguire's old mare, was a wonderful "critter;" she
opened gates, let down bars, seized the pump handle by her teeth, and
actually extracted water from the barn-yard well, with all the facility
of a regular double-fisted _genus homo_. As a sly old joker, she had
performed various tricks, such as nipping off the tails of sucking
calves, catching chickens in her manger, and making various pieces of
them, and kicking in the ribs of strange dogs and horned cattle. But to
the eccentric habits and bacchanalian customs of her ex-military master,
the old mare's dormant talents owed their "fetching out."

Old "Captain Maguire" had served with credit to himself and honor to the
State, in her early struggles against the Indians and French Canadians.
"Bonny Doon" was then in her "fille"-hood, and probably the most
beautiful, as well as the most saucy jade, in the frontier army. Some
twenty-five years had passed, and still the old captain and the mare
were about, every-day cronies, for the old man no more thought of
walking fifty rods, premeditatedly, than a South Carolina dandy would
dream of the possibility of getting a glass of water without the
immediate assistance of a son of Ethiopia! The old man had become
possessed of wealth as well as years--was likewise the progenitor of a
large and flourishing family, of the finest looking men and women in the
State, and having gotten all things in this pleasant kind of train, he
"laid off" in perfect lavender. The old captain's farm was about four
miles from the large and flourishing town of Z----, and here the captain
spent most of his time. Riding in on "Bonny Doon," in the morning, and
hitching her to the sign-post, the poor beast would stand there--unless
taken in by the ostler or others--until midnight, while the captain
swigged whiskey, and smoked his pipe in the tavern. Yet "Bonny Doon's"
affection for her old master did not flag; she waited patiently until he
came--her mane and long tail would then switch about, while she'd
"snigger eout" with gladness at his coming, and carry the old man
through rain or snow, moonshine, or total darkness, over corduroy
railroads, bridges, ravines, and last, though by no means least, over
the narrow plank-way of Captain Maguire's saw-mill dam, while the waters
on each side foamed and roared like a mountain torrent, and while the
old man was either asleep or his hat so full of "bricks," that he was
about as difficult to balance in the saddle as a sack of potatoes or
Turk's Island salt! A better citizen, when sober, never paid taxes or
trod sole leather in that State, than old Captain Maguire; but when he
was "up the tree," a little sprung, or _tight_, as you may say, he was
ugly enough, and chock full of wolf and brimstone! One day the captain
was summoned to attend court, and testify in a case wherein his evidence
was to give a lift to the suit of a neighbor, for whom the old man
entertained a most lively disgust and very unchristianly hate. The old
man, finding that he must go, went. He wet his whistle several times
before starting, repeated the dose several times before he reached the
Court House, and about the time he supposed he was wanted, he mounted
"Bonny Doon," and started, full chisel, up the steps, through the entry,
and into the crowded Court room, just in the nick of time.

"Robert Maguire! Robert Maguire! Robert----"

"Be the help o' Moses, _I'm here!_" roared the captain, in response to
the crier.

And sure enough, he wasn't anywhere else! There he sat, stiff, and
formal as a bronze statue of some renowned military chieftain, on a
pot-metal war steed. Some laughed, others stepped out of the way of the
mare's heels, judge and jury "riz," some of the oldest sinners in law
practice looked quite "skeery," doubtless taking the old captain and his
black charger for quite a different individual! It was some time before
order and decorum were restored, as it was much easier for the judge to
_order_ Captain Maguire to be arrested for his freak, than to do it,
"Bonny Doon" not being disposed to let any man approach her head or
heels. They shut the captain up, finally, for contempt of court, and
fined him twenty dollars, but he escaped the disagreeable attitude of
sustaining the suit of an enemy. At another time, the captain, being on
a _time_, dashed into a meeting-house, running in at one door, and slap
bang out at the other! This feat of Camanche horsemanship rather alarmed
the whole congregation, and cost the captain five twenties! Riding into
bar rooms and stores was a common performance of "Bonny Doon" and her
master; and he had even gone so far as to run the mare up two entire
flights of stairs of the principal hotel, dashing into a room where "a
native" was shivering in bed with the fever and ague; but the noise and
sudden appearance of a man and horse in such high latitudes effected a
permanent and speedy cure; the fright like to have destroyed the
sufferer's crop of hair, but the "a-gy" was skeered clean out of his
emaciated body.

After a variety of adventures by flood and field, of hair-breadth
'scapes, and eccentricities of man and beast, they parted! "Bonny Doon"
being about the only living spectator of her master's end. This tragic
denouement came about one cold, stormy and snowy night, when few men,
and as few beasts, would willingly or without pressing occasion, expose
themselves to the pitiless storm. The old captain had been in town all
day, with "Bonny Doon" hitched to the horse block, and being full of
"distempering draughts," as Shakspeare modestly terms it, and malicious
bravery in the midst of the great storm, late in the evening he mounted
his half-starved and as near frozen mare, to go home.

"Better stay all night, captain," coaxed some friend.

"Hills are icy, and hollows filled with snow," suggested the landlord.

"I wouldn't ride out to your place to-night, captain, for a seat in
Congress!" rejoined the first speaker.

"Ye wouldn't?" replied the captain. "And--and no wonder ye wouldn't, fer
not a divil iv ye's iver had the horse as could carry ye's over me road
th' night. Look at that! There's the baste can do it!--d'ye see that?"
and as the old man, reeling in the saddle, jammed the rowels of his
heavy spurs into the flanks of the mare, she nearly stood erect, and
chafed her bits as fiery and mettled as though just from her oats and
warm stable, and fifteen years kicked off.

"Boys," bawled the captain, "here's the ould mare that can thravel up a
frozen mountain, slide down a greased rainbow, and carry ould Captain
Maguire where the very ould divil himsilf couldn't vinture his dirty
ould body. Hoo-o-oo-oop! I'm gone, boys!"

And he was off, gone, too; for the old man never reached the threshold
of his domicil.--Next morning Captain Maguire was found in the mill-dam,
entirely dead, with poor "Bonny Doon," nearly frozen, and scarcely able
to walk or move, standing near him. But there she stood, upon the narrow
icy way over the dam, and from appearances of the snow and planks of the
little bridge, the faithful mare had pawed, scraped, and endeavored by
various means to rescue her master. The manner of the catastrophe was
evident; the old man had become sleepy, and frozen, and while the poor
mare was feeling her way over the icy and snow-covered bridge, her
master had slipped off into the frozen dam, and no doubt she would have
dragged him out, could she have reached him. As it was, she stood a
faithful sentinel over her lost master, and did not survive him
long,--the cold and her evident sorrow ended the eventful life of "Bonny
Doon."




Getting into the "Right Pew."


New Year's day is some considerable "pumpkins" in many parts of the
United States. In the Western States, they have horse-racing,
shooting-matches, quilting-frolics and grand hunting parties. In the
South, the week beginning with Christmas and ending with New Year's day,
is devoted to the largest liberty by the <DW64>s, who have one grand and
extensive _saturnalia_, visit their friends and relations, make love to
the "gals" on neighboring plantations, spend the little change saved
through the year, or now and then given to them by indulgent or generous
masters, and in fact have a glorious good time! The holidays in New
Orleans, and in Louisiana generally, is _a time_, and no mistake. The
old French and Spanish families keep open house--dinners and suppers,
music, song and dance. On New Year's eve, they decorate the graves of
their friends with flowers. Lamps or lanterns are often required for
this purpose, and as you pass the silent grave-yards, it is indeed a
novel sight to see the many glimmering lights about the tombs of the
departed. In most of the South-Western towns, the day is given up to fun
and frolic. The Philadelphians have a great blow out. The streets are
filled by holiday-looking people, children with toys and "mint
sticks"--making the air resound with tin trumpets and penny whistles.
The men and boys used to load up every thing in the shape of cannons,
guns, pistols and hollow keys, and bang away from sunset until sunrise,
keeping up a racket, din and uproar, equal to the bombardment of a
citadel. The authorities stopped that, and now the civil young men kill
the night and day in dancing, feasting, and attending the amusements,
the multitude of rowdies passing their time in concocting and carrying
on street fights and running with the engines.

But the New Yorkers _bang_ the whole of them; bear witness, O ye New
Year's doings I have there seen. Visiting your friends, and your
friends' friends. Open houses every where! "Drop in and take a glass of
wine or bit of cake, if nothing else"--that's the word. Jeremy Diddlers
flourish, marriageable daughters and interesting widows set their caps
for the nice young men, the streets are noisy and full of confusion, the
theatres and show-shops generally reap an elegant harvest, and the
police reports of the second morning of the New Year swell monstrously!
Of a New Year's adventure of an innocent young acquaintance of mine, I
have a little story to tell.

Jeff. Jones was caught, at a New Year's dinner in New York, by the
fascinating grace and _cap_-tivating head-gear of a certain young widow,
who had a fine estate. Jeff. was what you might call a good boy; he had
never seen much of creation, save that lying between Pokeepsie (his
birth-place) and the Battery, Castle Garden and Bloomingdale. He was a
clever fellow, fond of rational fun and amusement, kept "a set of books"
for a mercantile firm in Maiden Lane, dressed well, kept good hours, and
in all general respects, was--a nice young man. He went with a friend on
a tour--New Year's day, to make calls. After a number of glasses and
chunks of cake, feeling altogether beautiful, he found himself in the
presence of a charming widow, and some two months afterwards, himself
and the widow, a parson and a brace of male and female friends, Jeff.
Jones, aged 28, took a partner for life, ergo he hung up his hat in the
snug domicil of the flourishing widow, who became Mrs. Jeff. Jones,
thereafter.

Poor Jeff., he found out that there was some truth in the venerable
saying--all is not gold that glitters. The charming widow was seriously
inclined to wear the inexpressibles; and poor Jeff., being of such a
gentlemanly, good and easy disposition, scarcely made a struggle for his
reserved rights. However, things, under such a state of affairs, grew no
better fast, and as Jeff. Jones had neglected to go around and see the
elephant before marriage, he came to the conclusion to see what was
going on after that interesting ceremony. In short, Jeff. got to going
out of nights--kept "bad hours," got blowed up in gentle strains at
first, but which were promised to be enlarged if Mr. Jones did not mind
his Ps. and Qs.

The third anniversary of Jeff. Jones's annexation to the widow was
coming around. It was New Year's day in the morn; it brought rather
sober reflections into Jeff.'s mind, on the head of which he thought
he'd as soon as not--_get tight!_ This notion was pleasing, and dressing
himself in his best clothes, Jones informed Mrs. J. that he wished to
call on a few old friends, and would be home to dine and bring some
friends with him!

"See that you do, then," said Mrs. J., "see that you do, that's all!"
and she gave Mr. J. "a look" not at all like Miss Juliet's to Mr.
Romeo--she _spoke_, and she said something.

However, Jones cleared himself; dinner hour arrived, if Jeff. Jones did
not; Mrs. Jones smiled and chatted, and did the honors of the table with
rare good grace, but where was Jones?

"He'll be poking in just as dinner is over, and the puddings cold, and
company preparing to leave; then he'll catch a lecturing."

But don't fret your pretty self, Mrs. Jones--for dinner passed and
tea-time came, but no Jones. Mrs. Jones began to get snappish, and by
ten o'clock she had bitten all the ends from her taper fingers, besides
dreadfully scolding the servants, all around. Mrs. J. finally
retired--the clock had struck 12, and no Jones was to be seen; Mrs. J.
was worried out; she could not sleep a blessed wink. She got up again,
Jones might have met with some dreadful accident! She had not thought of
that before! Perhaps at that very hour he was in the bottom of the
Hudson, or in the deep cells of the Tombs! It was awful! Mrs. Jones
dressed--the house was as still as a church-yard--she put on an old
hood, and shawl to match, and noiselessly she crept down stairs; and by
a passage out through the back area into a rear street. Mrs. Jones at the
dead hour of night determined to seek some information of her husband.
She had not gotten over a block, or block and a half from her mansion,
when she spies two men coming along--wing and wing, merry as grigs,
reeling to and fro, and singing in stentorian notes:

    "A man that is (hic) married (hic) has lost every hope--
    He's (hic) like a poor (hic) pig with his foot in a rope!
                        _O-o-o! dear! O-o-o! dear--cracky!_
    A man that is (hic) married has so (hic) many ills--
    He's like a (hic) poor fish with a (hic) hook in his gills!
                        _O-o-o-o! dear! O-o-o-o! dear--cracky!"_

In terror of these roaring bacchanalians, who were slowly approaching
her, Mrs. Jones stood close in the doorway of a store; the revellers
parted at the corner of the street, after many asseverations of eternal
friendship, much noise and twattle. One of the carousers came lumbering
towards Mrs. J., and she, in some alarm, left her hiding place and
darted past the midnight brawler; and to her horror, the fellow made
tracks after her as fast as a drunken man could travel, and that ain't
slow; for almost any man inside of sixty can run, like blazes, when he
is scarce able to stand upon his pins because of the quantity of bricks
in his beaver. Mrs. Jones ran towards her dwelling, but before she could
reach it, the ruffian at her heels clasped her! Just as she was about to
give an awful scream, wake up all the neighbors and police ten miles
around, she saw--_Jones!_ Jeff. Jones, her recreant husband!

It was a moment of awful import--the widow was equal to the crisis,
however, and governed herself accordingly; proving the truth of some
dead and gone philosopher who has left it in black and white, that the
widows are always more than a _match_ for any man in Christendom!

Jones was loving drunk, a stage that terminates and is a near kin to
total oblivion, in bacchanalian revels. Jones had not the remotest idea
of where he was--time or persons; his tongue was thick, eyes dull, ideas
monstrous foggy, and the few sentences he rather unintelligibly uttered,
were highly spiced with--"my little (hic) angel, you (hic), you (hic)
live 'bout (hic) here? Can't you ta-take me (hic) home with you, eh?
My-my old woman (hic) would raise-rai-raise old scratch if I (hic), I
went home to-to-night. (Hic) I'll, I'll go home (hic) in the morning,
and (hic) tell her, ha! ha! he! (hic) tell her I've be-be-been to a
fire!"

"O, the villain," said Mrs. J. to herself; "but I'll be revenged. Come,
sir, go home with me--I'll take care of you. Come, sir, be careful; this
way--in here."

"Where the (hic) deuce are--are you going down this (hic) cellar, eh?"

"All right, sir. Come, be careful! don't fall; rest on my arm--there,
shut the door."

"Why (hic), ha-hang it a--all; get a light--that's a de--ar!"

"Yes, yes; wait a moment, I'll bring you a light."

Mrs. J. having gotten her game bagged, left it in the dark, and retired
to her bed-chamber. Some of the servants, hearing a noise in the
basement, got up, stuck their noses out of their rooms, and being
convinced that a desperate scoundrel was in the house, raised the very
old boy. Poor Jones, in his efforts to get out, run over pots, pans, and
chairs, and through him and the servants, the police were alarmed!
lights were raised, and Jones was arrested for a burglar!

Never was a man better pleased to find himself in his own domicil, than
Jones! It was all Greek to the watchmen and servants; it was a
mysterious matter to Jones for a full fortnight--but upon promise of
ever after spending his new year's at home, Mrs. J. let the cat out of
the bag. Jones surrendered!




A Circuitous Route.


We know several folks who have a way of beating round and boxing the
compass, from A to Z, and back again, that fairly knocks us into
smithereens. One of these characters came to us the other day, and in a
most mysterious manner, with the utmost earnestness, solemnity, and
_hocus pocus_, says he--

"Cap'n, (winking,) I wanted to see you--(two winks;) the fact of the
business is, (wink, nod, and double wink,) I've wanted to see you,
badly; you see, I-a--well, what I-a (two winks)--was about to remark
(two nods and a short cough),--that is to say, it don't make much
matter, if-a--(wink, wink, wink;) you see it was in this way,
I-a--wanted to--a, to tell you that (dreadful lot of winks) I've
been--not, to be sure, that it's an uncommon-a thing, (nod, cough, and
forty winks,) but no doubt if I-a--the fact is--"

"Well, what in thunder and rosin is _the fact_, old boy?" says we.

"The fact is, cap'n, I'd a told you at once, but-a--I don't know why
I--shouldn't tho', (wink on wink,) _have you got two shillings you won't
want to use to-day_?"

We hadn't!




Major Blink's First Season at Saratoga.


"Ha, ha!" said Uncle Joe Blinks, as the subject of summer travel, a
jaunt somewhere, was being discussed among the regular boarders in Mrs.
Bamberry's spacious old-fashioned parlors; "Ha! ha! ha! ladies, did Mrs.
Bamberry ever tell you of _my_ tour to Saratogy Springs?--last summer
was two years."

"No," said several of us _neuter genders_ who had repeatedly heard all
about it, but were desirous that those who had not been thus gratified,
especially the ladies, and particularly a Miss Scarlatina, who was
_dieting_ for a tour to the famed Springs--"tell us all about it,
Major."

"Then," said the Major, with his favorite exclamation, "then, by the
banks of Brandywine, if I don't tell you. You see, last summer was two
years, I came to the conclusion, that I'd stop off business, altogether,
brush up a little, and go forth a mite more in the world, and I went. A
friend of mine, a married man, was going up north to Saratogy, with his
wife and sister--a plaguy nice young woman, the sister was, too; well, I
don't know how it was, exactly, but somehow or other, it came into my
head, especially as my friend Padlock had asked me if I wouldn't like to
go up to Saratogy--that I'd go, and I went. It was odd enough, to be
sure," said Uncle Joe, taking a pinch of rappee from his tortoise-shell
box--"very odd, in fact, but somehow or other, Mrs. Padlock, being in
poor health, and her sister, a rather volatile and inexperienced young
woman, you may say--"

"So that you had to _beau_ her along the way, Uncle Joe?" says several
of the company.

"Well, yes; it was very odd, I don't know how it was, but somehow or
other, I-a--I-a--"

"Out with it, Uncle Joe--own up; you cottoned to the young lady, gallant
as possible, eh?" says the gents.

"Ha! ha! it's a very delicate thing, very delicate, I assure you,
gentlemen, for an old bachelor to be on the slightest terms of intimacy
with a young--"

"And beautiful!" echoed the company.

"Unexperienced," continued the Major.

"And unprotected," says the chorus.

"Volatile," added the Major.

"And marriageable young lady, like Miss--"

"Miss Catchem," said the Major.

"Catchem!" cried the gents.

"Catchem, that was her name; she was the daughter of a very respectable
widow," continued the Major.

"A widow's daughter, eh?" said they all, now much interested in Uncle
Joe's journey to Saratoga, and--but we won't anticipate.

"Of a very respectable widow, whose husband, I believe, was a--but no
matter, they were of good family, and a--"

"Yes, yes, Uncle Joe," said the ladies, "no doubt of that; go on with
your story; you paid attention to Miss Catchem; you grew familiar--you
became mutually pleased with each other, and you finally--well, tell us
how it all came out, Uncle Joe, do!" they cried.

"Bless me, ladies! You've quite got ahead of my story--altogether! Miss
Catchem and I never spoke a word to each other in our lives," said the
Major.

"Why, Uncle Joe!" cried the whole party.

"By banks of Brandywine, it's a fact."

"Well, we never!" cried all the ladies.

"Well, ladies, I don't suppose you ever did," Uncle Joe responds. "The
fact is, Mrs. Padlock died suddenly the week Padlock spoke to me of
going to Saratogy, and he married her sister, Miss Catchem, in course of
a few weeks after, himself! I don't know how it was, but somehow or
other, I thought it was all for the best; things might have turned out
that I should have got tangled up with that girl, and a--"

"Been a married man, now, instead of a bachelor, Uncle Joe!" said the
young ladies.

"It's odd; I don't know how it was, ladies; it might have been so, but
it turned out just as I have stated."

"Well, well, Major," said an elderly person of the group; "go on; how
about Saratoga?"

"I will," says Uncle Joe, again resorting to his rappee, "I will. You
see Padlock didn't _go_, it was very odd; but somehow or other, I made
up my mind to _go_, and I went. I calculated to be gone three or four
weeks, and I concluded for once, at least, to loosen the strings of my
purse, if I never did again; so I laid out to expend three dollars or
so, each day, say eighty dollars for the trip; a good round sum, I
assure you, to fritter away; but, by banks of Brandywine, I was
determined to _do_ it, and I did. It was very odd, but the first person
I met at New York was an old friend, a schoolmate of mine. I was glad to
see him, and sorry enough to learn that he had failed in business--had a
large family--poor--in distress. It was very odd, but somehow or other,
we dined at the hotel together--had a bottle of Madeira, and I a--well,
I loaned--yes, by banks of Brandywine, I gave the poor fellow a twenty
dollar bill, shook hands and parted; yes, poor Billy Merrifellow, we
never met again; he--he died soon after, in distress, his family broke
up--scattered; it was very odd; poor fellow, he's gone;" and Uncle Joe
again had recourse to his rappee, while a large tear hung in the corner
of his full blue eye. Closing his box, and wiping his face with his
_pongee_, the Major continued:

"Next morning I called for my bill. I was astonished to find that a
couple of bottles of good wine, two extra meals, and something over one
day's board, figured up the round sum of ten dollars. I was three days
out, so far, and my pocket-book was lessened of half the funds intended
for a month's expenses! By banks of Brandywine, thinks Major, my boy,
this won't do; you must economize, or you shall be short of your
reckonings before you are a week out of port. That morning at the
steam-boat wharf I meets a young man very genteelly dressed; he looked
in deep distress about something. It was very odd, I don't know how it
was, but somehow or other, he came up to me and asked if I was going up
the river, and I very civilly told him I was; then, he up and tells me
he was a stranger in the city, had lost all his money by gambling, was
in great distress--had nothing but a valuable watch--a present from his
deceased father, a Virginia planter, and a great deal more. He begged me
to buy the watch, when I refused at first, but finally he so importuned
me, and offered the watch at a rate so apparently below its real value
that I up and gave him forty dollars for it, thinking I might in part,
indemnify my previous extravagance by this little bit of a trade. It was
very odd; I don't know how it was, but somehow or other, upon my arrival
at Saratogy, I found that watch wasn't worth the powder that would blow
it up! I was imposed upon, cheated by a scoundrel! Here I was, four days
from home, and my whole month's outfit nigh about gone. In the stage
that took us from the boat to the Springs, rode a very respectable
youngish-looking woman, with a very cross child in her arms; we had not
rode far before I found the other passengers, all gentlemen, apparently
much annoyed by the child; for my part I sympathized with the poor
woman, got into a conversation with her--learned she was on her way to
Saratogy to see her husband, who was engaged there as a builder. Upon
arriving at Saratogy, the young woman requested me to hold her child--it
was fast asleep--until she stepped over to a new building to inquire
about her husband. I did so; she went away, and I never saw her from
that to this!"

A loud and prolonged laugh from his auditors followed this _tableau_ in
Uncle Joe's story. A little more rappee, and the Major proceeded:

"Well, it was very odd, I don't know how it was, but somehow or other I
was left with the child, and a plaguy time had I of it; the town
authorities refused to take charge of it, nobody else would; so by
Brandywine, there I was; the people seemed to be suspicious of
me--sniggered and went on as though I knew more about the woman and her
child than I let on. In short, I had to father the child, and provide
for it, and I did," said the Major, quite patriotically.

"Well, never mind, Uncle Joe," said Mrs. Bamberry; "that boy may pay you
yet--pay you for all your trouble; he's growing nicely, and will make a
fine man."

"So you really had to keep the child!" cried several.

"O yes," says the Major; "I was in for it; I got a nurse and had the
youngster taken care of. The hotels were crowded, very uncomfortable,
rooms wretched, small, damp, and dirty. The landlords were quite
independent, and the servants the most impudent set of extorting varlets
I ever encountered! To keep from starving, I did as others--bribed a
waiter to keep my plate supplied. At night they had what they called
'hops!' in other words, dances, shaking the whole house, and raising
such a noise and hullabaloo, with cracked horns, squeaky
fiddles--bawling and yelling, that no sailor boarding house could be
half so disturbant of the peace. By banks of Brandywine, I got enough of
such _folderols_; at the end of the week I asked for my bill, augmented
by some few sundries--it made my hair stand up. Now what do you suppose
my bill was, for one week, board, lodging, servants' _bribes_ and
sundries? I'll tell you," said the Major, "for you never could guess
it--it was forty-one dollars, fifty cents. I took my _protege_, bag and
baggage, and started for home. I was absent on this memorable tour to
Saratogy just two weeks, and by banks of Brandywine, if the expense of
that tour--not including the time _wasted_, vexation, bother,
mortification of feelings, fuss, and rumpus--was but a fraction less
than three hundred dollars! Four times the cost of my anticipated trip,
lessened half the time, with fifty per cent. more humbug about it than I
ever dreamed of!"

Miss Scarlatina agreed with the rest of the company, that it cost Uncle
Joe Blinks more to go to Saratogy than it came to, and they all
concluded--not to go there themselves, just then--any how!




Old Jack Ringbolt


Had been spinning old Mrs. Tartaremetic any quantity of salty yarns; she
was quite surprised at Mr. Ringbolt's ups and downs, trials, travels and
tribulations. Honest Jack (!) had assured the old dame that he had
sailed over many and many cities, all under water, and whose roofs and
chimneys, with the sign-boards on the stores, were still quite visible.
He had seen Lot's wife, or the pillar of salt she finally was frozen
into!

"And did you see that--Lot's wife?" asked the old lady.

"Yes, marm; but 'tain't there now--the cattle got afoul of the pillar of
salt one day, and licked it all up!"

"Good gracious! Mr. Ringbolt!"

"Fact, marm; I see'd 'em at it, and tried to skeer 'em away."

"Well, Mr. Ringbolt, you've seen so much, and been around so, I'd think
you would want to settle down, and take a wife!"




Who Killed Capt. Walker?


Few incidents of the campaign in Mexico seem so mixed up and indefinite
as that relative to the taking of Huamantla, and the death of that noble
and chivalric officer, Capt. Walker. In glancing over the papers of
Major Mammond, of Georgia, which he designates the "Secondary Combats of
the Mexican War," we observe that he has given an account of the
engagement at Huamantla, and the fall of Walker. We believe the Major's
account, compiled as it is from "the documents," to be in the main
correct, but lacking incidental pith, and slightly erroneous in the
grand _denouement_, in which our gallant friend--whose manly countenance
even now stares us in the face, as if in life he "yet lived"--yielded up
the balance of power on earth.

We have taken some pains, and a great deal of interest surely, in coming
at the facts; and no time seems so proper as the present--several of the
chivalric gentlemen of that day and occasion, being now around us--to
give the story its veritable exhibition of true interest.

Capt. S. H. Walker was a Marylander, a young man of the truest possible
heroism and gallantry. He entered upon the campaign with all the ardor
and enterprise of a soldier devoted to the best interests of his
country. He commanded a company of mounted men, whose bravery was only
equalled by his own, and whose discipline and hardiness has been
unsurpassed, if equalled, by any troops of the world. We shall skip over
the thousand and one incidents of the line of action in which Walker,
Lewis, and their brave companions in arms did gallant service, to come
at the sanguinary and truly thrilling _denouement_.

Gen. Lane, after the landing and organization of his troops at Vera
Cruz, with some 2500 men, started for Puebla, where it was understood
that Col. Childs required reinforcement. Lane left Jalapa on the 1st of
October, and hurried forward with Lally's command. At Perote, Lane
learned that Santa Anna would throw himself upon his muscle, and give
the advancing columns jessy at the pass of Pinal, and there was every
prospect of a very tight time. Col. Wynkoop was in command at Perote;
the men were anxious to be "in" at the fight in prospective, and Wynkoop
obtained permission to join the General with four companies of the
Pennsylvania Regiment; a small battery of the 3d Artillery, under
command of Capt. Taylor, with Capts. Walker, of the Texan Rangers, and
Lewis, of the Louisiana Cavalry. The column was now swelled to some
2800. They moved rapidly forward, and upon reaching Tamaris, Lane heard
that the old fox was off--Santa Anna had gone to Huamantla. Lane
determined to hunt him up with haste. The main force was left at
Tamaris. Troops were forwarded--advanced by Walker's Rangers and Lewis's
Cavalry--who approached to within sight, or nearly so, of Huamantla. The
orders to Walker were to advance to the town, and if the Mexicans were
in force, to wait for the Infantry to come up. Walker's command rated
about 200 men. Upon reaching the outskirts of Huamantla, the Mexican
Cavalry were seen dashing forward into the town, and the brave Walker
ordered a pursuit.

Santa Anna was evidently in the town. Capt. Walker, says his gallant
comrade Lewis, made up his mind to be the captor of the wily old chief.
The fair prospect of accomplishing the deed so excited Walker, that
danger and death were alike secondary considerations, and so the command
charged into the town. Some 500 lancers met the charge, but with
terrific impetuosity the Rangers and Cavalry dashed in among them,
cutting them down right and left, and soon sent them flying in all
directions! It was at this moment, says Capt. Lewis, that one of the
most heroic acts of bravery was performed, unsurpassed, perhaps, by any
act of personal daring during the whole war! A tremendous <DW64>, a fine,
manly fellow, named Dave, belonging to Capt. Walker, with whom he was
brought up--boys together--being mounted, and armed with a heavy sabre,
dashed forward down a narrow street, (up which, a detached body of
lancers were striving to escape,) and throwing himself between three
poised lances and the person of Dr. Lamar, one of the surgeons, who
would have been most inevitably torn to atoms, Dave raised himself in
his saddle, and with a yell, and one fell swoop, the heroic fellow
"chopped down" a lancer, clean and clear to his saddle! Two lancers
pierced Dave's body, and he fell from his horse, dead!

Charging up to the Plaza--the Mexicans flying--Capt. Walker dismounted,
with some thirty of his men, and advanced up a flight of steps to force
an entrance into a church or convent, where he supposed Santa Anna was
hid away. The flying lancers were pursued by the Rangers, who, very
injudiciously, of course, scattered themselves over the town.

Capt. Lewis, in the mean time, had found a large yard attached to a
temporary garrison, in which were some sixty horses, equipped ready for
immediate use, and which the Mexicans had, in their hurry to escape,
left behind them! The irregular firing of the Rangers, in pursuit of the
Mexicans, being deemed useless and unnecessary, Capt. Lewis left several
of his men, among whom was "Country McCluskey," the noted pugilist, a
volunteer in Capt. Lewis's company, to guard the horses, while he rode
forward to the convent.

"Capt. Walker," said Lewis, "I deem it, sir, not only useless, but bad
policy, to allow that firing by the men, around the town."

Capt. Walker immediately ordered the firing to cease, and being apprized
of Capt. Lewis's discovery of the horses, &c., ordered him to bring up
his command. Capt. Lewis wheeled his horse; some one fired close by, and
Capt. Walker cried out--

"Who was that? I'll shoot down the next man who fires against my
orders!"

At that moment three guns were fired from the convent--and
simultaneously a cannon was fired down the street, from a party of
Mexicans in the distance. Capt. Lewis faced about just in time to see
Capt. Walker drop down upon the steps of the convent, as he emphatically
expresses it,--

"Like a lump of lead, sir!"

The piece up the street was fired again. Capt. Lewis ordered the fallen,
gallant Walker, to be placed upon the steps close to the wall. A shot
from the piece alluded to striking off the stone and mortar, he ordered
the doors to be forced, and Capt. Walker to be taken in, which was done.
The bugle sounded, and in an instant a horde of lancers poured into the
town, rushing down upon the Americans from every avenue! Capt. Lewis had
wheeled about to collect his men, when he found McCluskey and others
leading out "the pick" of the captured horses.

"Drop--drop the horses, you fool, and mount! Mount, sir, mount!"

They mounted fast enough; Lewis formed, and met the enemy in gallant
style; and though there were ten, aye, twenty to one, possibly, he drove
them back! To quote our friend, Major Hammond's words, "Lewis, of the
Louisiana Cavalry, assumed command, struggled ably to preserve the guns
(captured), and held his position fairly, until assistance arrived."

One hundred and fifty of the enemy fell, while of the Rangers and
Cavalry some twenty-five were killed and wounded. They were engaged
nearly an hour, and the bravery displayed by Walker, Lewis, and their
men, was worthy of general admiration, and all honor.

Poor Walker! a ball struck him in the left shoulder, passed over his
heart, and came out in his right vest pocket!

Thus fell the gallant leader of one of the most formidable war parties,
of its numbers, known to history. Walker was a humane, impulsive man; a
warm friend, a brave, gallant soldier. His dying words were directed to
Capt. Lewis--to keep the town, and drive back the enemy; and that the
chivalrous Captain did so, was well proven. Capt. Walker, and his heroic
"boy" Dave, who fell unknown to his master, were buried together in the
earth they so lately stood upon, in all the glory and heroism of men
that were men!




Practical Philosophy


Skinflint and old Jack Ringbolt had a dispute on Long Wharf, a few days
since, upon a religious _pint_. Jack argued the matter upon a _specie_
basis, and Skinflint took to "moral suasion." Jack went in for equal
division of labor and money--all over the world.

"Suppose, now, John," says Skinflint, "we rich men _should_ share equal
with the poor--their imprudence would soon throw all the wealth into our
hands again!"

"Wall," says Jack, "s'pose it did! You'd only have to--_share all around
again!_"




Borrowed finery; or, Killed off by a Ballet Girl.


Shakspeare has written--"let him that's robbed--not wanting what is
stolen, not know it, _and he's not robbed at all!_" Now this fact often
becomes very apparent, especially so in the case of Mrs. Pompaliner,--a
lady of whom we have had occasion to speak before, the same who sent
Mrs. Brown, the washerwomen, sundry boxes of perfume to mix in her
_suds_, while washing the pyramids of dimity and things of Mrs. P. There
never was a lady--no member of the sex, that ever suffered more, from
dread of contagion, fear of dirt, and the contamination of other people,
than Mrs. Pompaliner.

"Olivia," said she, one morning, to one of her waiting maids, for Mrs.
Pompaliner kept three, alternating them upon the principle of varying
her handkerchiefs, gloves and linen, as they--in her double-distilled
refined idea of things, became soiled by use, from time to time.
"Olivia, come here--Jessamine, you can leave:" she was so intent upon
odor and nature's purest loveliness, that she either sought
sweet-scented cognomened waiting-maids, or nick-named them up to the
fanciful standard of her own.

"Olivia, here, take this handkerchief away, take the horrid thing away.
I believe my soul somebody has touched it after it was ironed. Do take
it away," and the poor victim of concentrated, double extract of human
extravagance, almost fainted and fell back upon her lounge, in a fit of
abhorrence at the idea of her _mouchoir_ being touched, tossed, or
opened, after it entered her camphorated drawers in her highly-perfumed
_boudoir_.

"Olivia!"

"Yes'm," was the response of the fine, ruddy, and wholesome looking
maid.

"Olivia, put on your gloves."

"Yes'm."

"Go down to Mrs. Brown's," she faintly says--"tell her to come here this
very day."

"Yes'm."

"Olivia!"

"Yes'm," replied the fine-eyed, real woman.

"Got your gloves on?"

"Yes'm."

"Well, take this key, go to my boudoir, in the fifth drawer of my
_papier mache_ black bureau, you will find a case of handkerchiefs."

"Yes'm."

"Take out three, yes, four, close the case, lock the drawer, close the
boudoir door, and bring down the handkerchiefs upon my rosewood tray. Do
you comprehend, Olivia?"

"Yes'm," said the girl.

"But come here; let me see your hands. O, horror! such gloves! touch my
handkerchiefs or bureau drawers with those horrid gloves! Poison me!"
cries the terrified woman.

"Olivia," she again ejaculates, after a moment's pause, from overtasked
nature!

"Yes'm," the blushing, tickled _blonde_ replies.

"Go call Vanilla, you are quite soiled now. I want a fresh servant,
retire."

"Ah, Vanilla, girl, have you got your gloves on?"

"Yes'm," the yellow girl modestly answers.

"Then do go and bring me six handkerchiefs from my boudoir, in the fifth
drawer of my black _papier mache_ bureau. Let me see your gloves, dear.

"Ah, Vanilla, you are to be depended upon; your gloves are clean--now
run along, dear, for I'm suffering for a fresh, new, and untouched
handkerchief.

"Ah, that's well. Now, Vanilla, go to Mrs. Brown's, my laundress--say
that I wish her to come here, immediately."

"Yes'm," says the bright quadroon, and away she spins for the domicil of
democratic Mrs. Brown, the laundress.

"Now what's up, I'd like to know?" quoth the old woman.

"Dunno, missus wants to see you--guess you better come," says Vanilla.

"Deuce take sich fussy people," says Mrs. Brown; "I wouldn't railly put
up with all her dern'd nonsense, ef she wa'n't so poorly, so weak in her
mind and body, and so good about paying for her work. No, I declare I
wouldn't," said the strong-minded woman.

"Bring the creature up," said Mrs. Pompaliner, as one of her fresh
attendants announced the washerwoman.

"Ah, you are here?"

"Yes," said the fat, hardy, and independent, if awkward, Mrs. Brown, as
she stood in the august presence of Mrs. Pompaliner, and the gorgeous
trappings of her own private drawing-room.

"Yes, I believe I am, ma'am!" says the she-democrat.

"Vanilla, tell Olivia to bring Jessamine here."

"Yes'm."

"Now Mrs. a--what is your name?"

"Brown, Dorcas Brown; my husband and I--"

"Never mind, that's sufficient, Mrs. a--Brown," said the reclining Mrs.
Pompaliner. "I wish to know if anybody is permitted to touch or handle
any of my wardrobe, my linen, handkerchiefs, hose, gloves, laces, etc.,
in your house?"

"Tetch 'em!" echoes the rotund laundress; "why of course we've got to
tetch 'em, or how'd we get 'em ironed and put in your baskets, ma'am?"

"Do you pretend to say, Mrs. a--Brown--O dear! dear! I am afraid you
have ruined all my clothes!"

"Ruined 'em?" quoth Mrs. Brown, coloring up, like a fresh and lively
lobster immersed in a pot of highly caloric water.

"I want to know if the things ain't been done this week as well as I
ever did 'em, could do 'em, or anybody could do 'em on this mighty yeath
(earth), ma'am!"

"Come, come, don't get me flustered, woman," cries the poor, faint Mrs.
Pompaliner. "Don't come here to worry me; answer me and go."

"So I can go, ma'am!" said Mrs. Brown, with a vigorous toss of her
bullet head.

"Stop, will you understand me, Mrs.--a--"

"Brown, ma'am, Brown's my name. I ain't afeard to let anybody know it!"
responded the spunky laundress.

The arrival of Olivia, who ushered in Jessamine, turned the current of
affairs.

"Jessamine, your gloves on, dear?"

"Yes'm."

"Then go to my _boudoir_, open the rose-wood clothes case, bring down
the skirts, a dozen or two of the _mouchoirs_, the laces and hose."

The girl departed, and soon returned with a ponderous paper box, laden
with the articles required.

"Now," said Mrs. Pompaliner, "now, Brown, look at those articles; don't
you see that they have been touched?"

"Tetched! lord-a-massy, ma'am, how'd you get 'em ironed, folded and
brought home, ma'am, without tetching 'em?"

"Olivia, Vanilla, where are you? Jessamine, dear, bring me a fresh
handkerchief, ignite a _pastile_, there's such an odor in the room. Do
you _smell_, Mrs. a--Brown, that horrid lavender or rose, or, or,--do
you smell it, Brown?"

"Lord-a-massy, ma'am," said the old woman of suds, "I ollers smell a
dreadful smell here; them parfumeries o' yourn, I often tell my Augusty,
I wonder them stinkin'--"

"O! O! dear!" cries Mrs. Pompaliner, going off "into a spell;"
recovering a little, Mrs. Pompaliner proceeds to state that for some
time past, she had been troubled with _a presentiment_, that her fine
clothes had been tampered with after leaving the smoothing iron, and how
fatal to her would be the fact of any mortal daring to use, in the
remotest manner, any fresh garment or personal apparel of hers!
Suspicion had been aroused, the articles before the parties were now
diligently examined, when, lo! a spot, not unlike a slight smear of
vermilion, was discovered upon a splendid handkerchief--it gave Mrs. P.
an electric shock; but, O horror! the next thing turned up was a
_spangle_, big as a half dime, upon one of Mrs. P.'s most superb skirts!
This awful revelation, connected with the smell of vile lavender and
worse patchouly, upon another piece of woman gear, threw Mrs. Pompaliner
into spasms, between the motions of which she gasped:

"You have a daughter, Mrs. Brown?"

"Yes, I have."

"How old is she?"

"About seventeen, ma'am."

"And she a--?"

"Dances in the theatre, ma'am!"

The whole thing was out: the sacred garments of Mrs. P. had not only
been _touched_ by sacrilegious hands, but had had an airing, and smelt
the lamps of the play-house! Mrs. Pompaliner was so shocked, that four
first-class physicians tended her for a whole season.

Mrs. Brown lost a profitable customer, and well walloped her
ballet-nymph daughter Augusty, for attiring herself in the finery of her
most possibly particular and sensitive customer! It was awful!




Legal Advice.


Old Ben. Franklin said it was his opinion that, between imprisonment and
being at large in debt to your neighbor, there was no _difference_
worthy the name of it. Some people have a monstrous sight of courage in
debt, more than they have out of it, while we have known some, who,
though not afraid to stand fire or water, shook in their very
boots--wilted right down, before the frown of a creditor! A man that can
_dun_ to death, or stand a deadly _dun_, possesses talents no Christian
need envy; for, next to Lucifer, we look upon the confirmed "diddler"
and professional _dun_, for every ignoble trait in the character of
mankind. A friend at our elbow has just possessed us of some facts so
mirth-provoking, (to us, not to him,) that we jot them down for the
amusement and information of suffering mankind and the rest of creation,
who now and then get into a scrimmage with rogues, lawyers and law. And
perhaps it may be as well to let the _indefatigable_ tell his own story:

"You see, Cutaway dealt with me, and though he knew I was dead set
against _crediting_ anybody, he would insist, and did--get into my
books. I let it run along until the amount reached sixty dollars, and
Cutaway, instead of stopping off and paying me up, went in deeper!
Getting in debt seemed to make him desperate, reckless! One day he came
in when I was out; he and his wife look around, and, by George! they
select a handsome tea-set, worth twenty dollars, and my fool clerk sends
it home.

"'Tell him to _charge it!_' says Cutaway, to the boy who took the china
home; and I did charge it.

"The upshot of the business was, I found out that Cutaway was a
confirmed _diddler_; he got all he wanted, when and where he could, upon
the 'charge it' principle, and had become so callous to duns, that his
moral compunctions were as tough as sole leather--bullet-proof.

"I was vexed, I was _mad_, I determined to break one of my 'fixed
principles,' and _go to law_; have my money, goods, or a row! I goes to
a lawyer, states my case, gave him a fee and told him to go to work.

"Cutaway, of course, received a polite invitation to step up to Van
Nickem's office and learn something to his advantage; and he attended. A
few days afterwards I dropped in.

"'Your man's been here,' says Van Nickem, smilingly.

"'Has, eh? Well, what's he done?' said I.

"'O, he acknowledges the _debt_, says he thinks you are rather hurrying
up the biscuits, and thinks you might have sent the bill to him instead
of giving it to me for collection,' says the lawyer.

"'Send it to him!' says I. 'Why I sent it fifty times;--sent my clerk
until he got ashamed of going, and my boy went so often that his boots
got into such a way of _going_ to Cutaway's shop, that he had to change
them with his brother, _when he was going anywhere else!_'

"'He appears to be a clever sort of a fellow,' said Van.

"'He _is_,' said I, 'the cleverest, most perfectly-at-home _diddler_ in
town.'

"'Well,' said Van Nickem, 'Cutaway acknowledges the debt, says he's
rather straightened just now, but if you'll give him a little more
_time_, he'll fork up every cent; so if I were you, I'd wait a little
and see.'

"Well, I did wait. I didn't want to appear more eager for law than a
lawyer, so I waited--three months. At the end of that time, early one
Saturday morning, in came Cutaway. 'Aha!' says I, 'you are going to
_fork_ now, at last; it's well you come, for I'd been _down_ on you on
Monday, bright and early!'"

"You didn't say that to him, did you?" we observed.

"O, bless you, _no_. I said _that_ to _myself_, but I met _him_ with a
smile, and with a 'how d'ye do, Cutaway?' and in my excitement at the
prospect of receiving the $80, which I then wanted the worst kind, I
shook hands with him, asked how his family was, and got as familiar and
jocular with him as though he was the most cherished friend I had in the
world! Well, now what do you suppose was the result of that interview
with Cutaway?"

"Paid you a portion, or all of your bill against him, we suppose," was
our response.

"Not by a long shot; with the coolness of a pirate he asked me to credit
him for a handsome wine-tray, a dozen cut goblets and glasses, and a
pair of decanters; he expected some friends from New York that evening,
was going to give them a 'set out' at his house, and one of the guests,
in consideration of former favors rendered by him, was pledged--being a
man of wealth--to loan him enough funds to pay his debts, and take up a
mortgage on his residence."

"You laughed at his impudence, and kicked him out into the street?" said
we.

"I hope I may be hung if I didn't let him have the goods, and he took
them home with him, swearing by all that was good and bad, he would
settle with me early the following Monday morning. I saw no more of
_him_ for two weeks! I went to Van Nickem's, he laughed at me. The bill
was now $100. I was raging. I told Van Nickem I'd have my money out of
Cutaway, or I'd advertise him for a villain, swindler, and scoundrel."

"'He'd sue you for libel, and obtain damages,' said Van.

"'Then I'll horsewhip him, sir, within an inch of his life, in the open
street!' said I, in a heat.

"'You might _rue_ that,' said Van. 'He'd sue you for an assault, and
give you trouble and expense.'

"'Then I suppose I can do nothing, eh?--the _law_ being _made_ for the
benefit of such villains!'

"'We will arrest him,' said Van.

"'Well, then what?' said I.

"'We will haul him up to the bull ring, we will have the money, attach
his property, goods or chattels, or clap him in jail, sir!' said Van
Nickem, with an air of determination.

"I felt relieved; the hope of putting the rascal in jail, I confess, was
dearer to me than the $100. I told Van to go it, give the rascal jessy,
and Van did; but after three weeks' vexatious litigation, Cutaway went
to jail, swore out, and, to my mortification, I learned that he had been
through that sort of process so often that, like the old woman's skinned
eels, he was used to it, and rather liked the sensation than otherwise!
Well, saddled with the costs, foiled, gouged, swindled, and laughed at,
you may fancy my feelinks, as Yellow Plush remarks."

"So you lost the $100--got whipped, eh?" we remarked.

"No, _sir_," said our litigious friend. "I cornered him, I got old
Cutaway in a tight place at last, and that's the pith of the
transaction. Cutaway, having swindled and shaved about half the
community with whom he _had_ any transactions,--got his affairs all
fixed smooth and quiet, and with his family was off for California. I
got wind of it,--Van Nickem and I had a conference.

"'We'll have him,' says Van. 'Find out what time he sails, where the
vessel is, &c.; lay back until a few hours before the vessel is to cut
loose, then go down, get the fellow ashore if you can, talk to him, soft
soap him, ask him if he won't pay if he has luck in California, &c., and
so on, and when you've got him a hundred yards from the vessel, knock
him down, pummel him well; I'll have an officer ready to arrest both of
you for breach of the peace; when you are brought up, I'll have a
_charge_ made out against Cutaway for something or other, and if he
don't fork out and clear, I'm mistaken,' said Van. I followed his advice
to the letter; I pummelled Cutaway well; we were taken up and fined, and
Cutaway was in a great hurry to say but little and get off. But Van and
the _writ_ appeared. Cutaway looked streaked--he was alarmed. In two
hours' time he disgorged not only my bill, but a bill of forty dollars
costs! He then cut for the ship, the meanest looking white man you ever
saw!"

If Mr. Cutaway don't take the _force_ of that moral, _salt_ won't save
him.




Wonders of the Day.


The "firm" who save a hogshead of ink, annually, by not allowing their
clerks and book-keepers to dot their i's or cross their t's, are now
bargaining (with the old school gentlemen who split a knife that cost a
fourpence, in skinning a flea for his hide and tallow!) for a
two-pronged pen, which cuts short business letters and printed
bill-heads, by enabling a clerk to write on both sides of the paper, two
lines at a time. Great improvement on the old method, ain't it?




"Don't Know You, Sir!"


We shall never forget, and always feel proud of the fact, that we _knew_
so great an every-day _Plato_ as Davy Crockett. Had the old Colonel
never uttered a better idea than that everlasting good motto--"Be sure
you're right, then go ahead!" his wisdom would stand a pretty good
wrestle with tide and time, before his standing, as a man of genius,
would pass to oblivion--be washed out in Lethe's waters. We remember
hearing Col. Crockett relate, during a "speech," a short time before he
lost his life at the _Alamo_, in Texas--a little incident, of his being
taken up in New Orleans, one night, by a _gen d'arme_--lugged to the
calaboose, and kept there as an out-and-out "hard case," not being able
to find any body, hardly, that knew him, and being totally unable to
reconcile the chief of police to the fact that he _was_ the identical
Davy Crockett, or any body else, above par! "If you want to find out
your 'level,'--_ad valorem_, wake up some morning, noon or night--_where
nobody knows you!_" said the Colonel, "and if you ever feel so
essentially chawed up, _raw_, as I did in the calaboose, the Lord pity
you!"

There was a "modern instance" of Colonel Crockett's "wise saw," in the
case of a certain Philadelphia millionaire, who was in the habit of
_carting_ himself out, in a very ancient and excessively shabby gig;
which, in consequence of its utter ignorance of the stable-boy's brush,
sponge or broom, and the hospitalities the old concern nightly offered
the hens--was not exactly the kind of _equipage_ calculated to win
attention or marked respect, for the owner and driver. The old
millionaire, one day in early October, took it into his head to ride
out and see the country. Taking an early start, the old gentleman, and
his old bob-tailed, frost-bitten-looking horse, with that same old
shabby gig, about dusk, found themselves under the swinging sign of a
Pennsylvania Dutch tavern, in the neighborhood of Reading. As nobody
bestirred themselves to see to the traveller, he put his very
old-fashioned face and wig outside of the vehicle, and called--

"Hel-lo! hos-e-lair? Landlord?"

Leisurely stalking down the steps, the Dutch hostler advanced towards
the queer and questionable travelling equipage.

"Vel, vot you vont, ah?"

"Vat sal I vant? I sal vant to put oup my hoss, vis-ze stab'l, viz two
pecks of oats and plenty of hay, hos-e-lair."

"Yaw," was the laconic grunt of the hostler, as he proceeded to unhitch
old bald-face from his rigging.

"Stop one little," said the traveller. "I see 'tis very mosh like to
rain, to-night; put up my gig in ze stab'l, too."

"Boosh, tonner and blitzen, der rain not hurt yer ole gig!"

"I pay you for vat you sal do for me, mind vat I sal say, sair, if you
pleaze."

The hostler, very surlily, led the traveller's weary old brute to the
stable; but, prior to carrying out the orders of the traveller, he
sought the landlord, to know if it would _pay_ to put up the shabby
concern, and treat the old horse to a real feed of hay and oats, without
making some inquiries into the financial situation of the old Frenchman.

The landlord, with a country lawyer and a neighboring farmer, were at
the _Bar_, one of those old-fashioned _slatted_ coops, in a corner,
peculiar to Pennsylvania, discussing the merits of a law suit, seizure
of the property, &c., of a deceased tiller of the soil, in the vicinity.
Busily chatting, and quaffing their _toddy_, the entrance of the poor
old traveller was scarcely noticed, until he had divested himself of
his old, many-caped cloak, and demurely taken a seat in the room. The
hostler having reappeared, and talked a little Dutch to the host, that
worthy turned to the traveller--

"Good even'ns, thravel'r!"

"Yes, sair;" pleasantly responded the Frenchman, "a little."

"You got a hoss, eh?" continued the landlord.

"Yes, sair, I vish ze hostlair to give mine hoss plenty to eat--plenty
hay, plenty oats, plenty watair, sair."

"Yaw," responded the landlord, "den, Jacob, give'm der oats, and der
hay, and der water;" and, with this brief direction to his subordinate,
the landlord turned away from the way-worn traveller to resume his
conversation with his more, apparently, influential friends. The old
Frenchman very patiently waited until the discussion should cease, and
the landlord's ear be disengaged, that he might be apprized of the fact
that travellers had stomachs, and that of the old French gentleman was
highly _incensed_ by long delay, and more particularly by the odorous
fumes of roast fowls, ham and eggs, &c., issuing from the inner portion
of the tavern.

"Landlord, I vil take suppair, if you please," said he.

"Yaw; after dese gentlemans shall eat der suppers, den somesing will be
prepared for you."

"Sair!" said the old Frenchman, firing up; "I vill not vait for ze
shentilmen; I vant my suppair now, directly--right away; I not vait for
nobody, sair!"

"If you no like 'em, den you go off, out mine house," answered the old
sour krout, "you old barber!"

"Bar-bair!" gasped the old Frenchman, in suppressed rage. "Sair, I vill
go no where, I vill stay here so long, by gar, as--as--as I please,
sair!"

"Are you aware, sir," interposed the legal gentleman, "that you are
rendering gross and offensive, malicious and libellous, scandalous and
burglarious language to this gentleman, in his own domicile, with malice
prepense and aforethought, and a ----"

"Pooh! pooh! _pooh!_ for you, sair!" testily replied the Frenchman.

"Pooh? To me, sir? _Me, sir?_" bullyingly echoed Blackstone.

"Yes, sair--pooh--_pooh!_ von geese, sair!"

It were vain to try to depict the rage of wounded pride, the insolence
of a travelling _barber_ had stirred up in the very face of the man of
law, logic, and legal lore. He swelled up, blowed and strutted about
like a _miffed_ gobbler in a barn yard! He tried to cork down his rage,
but it bursted forth--

"You--you--you infernal old frog-eating, soap and lather, you--you--you
smoke-dried, one-eyed,* poor old wretch, you, if it wasn't for pity's
sake, I'd have you taken up and put in the county jail, for vagrancy, I
would, you poverty-stricken old rascal!"

    [*] Girard, it will be remembered, had but one eye. With that,
    however, he saw as much as many do with a full pair of eyes.

"Jacob!" bawled the landlord, to his sub., "bring out der ole hoss
again, pefore he die mit de crows, in mine stable; now, you ole fool,
you shall go vay pout your bishenish mit nossin to eat, mit yer hoss
too!" said the landlord, with an evident rush of blood and beer to his
head!

"Oh, veri well," patiently answered the old Frenchman, "veri well, sair,
I sal go--but,"--shaking his finger very significantly at the landlord
and lawyer, "I com' back to-morrow morning, I buy dis prop-er-tee; you,
sir, sal make de deed in my name--I kick you out, sair, (to the
landlord,) and to you (the lawyer), I sal like de goose. Booh!"

With this, the poor old Frenchman started for his gig, amid the "Haw!
haw! haw! and ha! ha! he! he!" of the landlord and lawyer. "That for
you," said the Frenchman, as he gave the surly Dutchman-hostler a real
half-dollar, took the dirty "ribbons" and drove off. Now, the farmer,
one of the three spectators present, had quietly watched the
proceedings, and being _gifted_ with enough insight into human nature to
see something more than "an old French barber" in the person and manner
of the traveller; and, moreover, being interested in the Tavern
property, followed the Frenchman; overtaking him, he at once offered him
the hospitalities of his domicile, not far distant, where the traveller
passed a most comfortable night, and where his host found out that he
was entertaining no less a pecuniary miracle of his time--_than Stephen
Girard_.

Early next morning, old Stephy, in his old and _shady_ gig, accompanied
by his entertainer, rode over to the two owners of the Tavern property,
and with them sought the _lawyer_, the deeds were made out, the old
Frenchman _drew_ on his own Bank for the $13,000, gave the farmer a ten
years' _lease_ upon the place, paid the lawyer for his trouble, and as
that worthy accompanied the millionaire to the door, and was very
obsequiously bowing him out, old Stephy turned around on the steps, and
looking sharp--with his one eye upon the lawyer, says he--

"Sair! Pooh! pooh!--_Booh!_" off he rode for the Tavern, where he and
the landlord had a _haze_, the landlord was notified to _leave_, short
metre; and being fully revenged for the insult paid his millions, old
Stephen Girard, the great Philadelphia financier, rode back to where he
was better used for his money, and evidently better satisfied than ever,
that money is mighty when brought to bear upon an object!




A Circumlocutory Egg Pedler.


We have been, frequently, much amused with the man[oe]uvring of some
folks in trade. It's not your cute folks, who screw, twist and twirl
over a smooth fourpence, or skin a flea for its hide and tallow, and
spoil a knife that cost a shilling,--that come out first best in the
long run. Some folks have a weakness for beating down shop-keepers, or
anybody else they deal with, and so far have we seen this _infirmity_
carried, that we candidly believe we've known persons that would not
stop short of cheapening the passage to kingdom come, if they thought a
dollar and two cents might be saved in the fare! Now the _rationale_ of
the matter is this:--as soon as persons establish a reputation for
meanness--beating down folks, they fall victims to all sorts of shaves
and short commons, and have the fine Saxony drawn over their eyes--from
the nose to the occiput; they get the meanest "bargains," offals, &c.,
that others would hardly have, even at a heavy discount. Then some folks
are so wonderful sharp, too, that we wonder their very shadow does not
often cut somebody. A friend of ours went to buy his wife a pair of
gaiters; he brought them home; she found all manner of fault with them;
among other drawbacks, she declared that for the price her better half
had given for the gaiters, _she_ could have got the best article in
Waxend's entire shop! _He_ said _she_ had better take them back and try.
So she did, and poor Mr. Waxend had an hour of his precious time used up
by the lady's attempt to get a more expensive pair of gaiters at a less
price than those purchased by her husband. Waxend saw how matters stood,
so he consented to adopt the maxim of--when Greek meets Greek, then
comes the tug of war!

"Now, marm," said he, "here is a pair of gaiters I have made for Mrs.
Heavypurse; they are just your fit, most expensive material, the best
article in the shop; Mrs. Heavypurse will not expect them for a few
days, and rather than _you_ should be disappointed, I will let _you_
have them for the same price your husband paid for those common ones!"

Of course Mrs. ---- took them, went home in great glee, and told her
better half she'd never trust him to go shopping for her again--for they
always cheated him. When the husband came to scrutinize his wife's
bargain, lo! he detected the self-same gaiters--merely with a different
quality of lacings in them! He, like a philosopher, grinned and said
nothing. That illustrates one phase in the character of some people who
"go it blind" on "bargains" and now, for the pith of our story--the way
some folks have of going round "Robin Hood's barn" to come at a thing.

The other day we stopped into a friend's store to see how he was getting
along, and presently in came a rural-district-looking customer.

"How'd do?" says he, to the storekeeper, who was busy, keeping the stove
warm.

"Pretty well; how is it with you?"

"Well, so, so; how's all the folks?"

"Middling--middling, sir. How's all your folks?"

"Tolerable--yes, tolerable," says the rural gent. "How's trade?" he
ventured to inquire.

"Dull, ray-ther dull," responded the storekeeper. "Come take a seat by
the stove, Mr. Smallpotatoes."

"Thank you, I guess not," says the ruralite. "Your folks are all
stirring, eh?" he added.

"Yes, stirring around a little, sir. How's your mother got?" the
storekeeper inquired, for it appeared he knew the man.

"Poorly, dreadful poorly, yet," was the reply. "Cold weather, you see,
sort o' sets the old lady back."

"I suppose so," responded our friend; and here, think's we, if there is
anything important or business like on the man's mind, he must be near
to its focus. But he started again--

"Ain't goin' to Californy, then, are you?" says Mr. Smallpotatoes.

"Guess not," said our friend. "You talked of going, I believe?"

"Well, ye-e-e-s, I did think of it," said the rural gent; "I did think
of it last fall, but I kind o' gin it up."

Here another _hiatus_ occurred; the rural gent walked around, viewed the
goods and chattels for some minutes; then says he--

"Guess I'll be movin'," and of course that called forth from our friend
the venerated expression--

"What's your hurry?"

"Well, nothing 'special. Plaguy cold winter we've got!"

"That's a fact," answered the storekeeper. "How's sleighing out your
way--good?"

"First rate; I guess the folks have had enough of it, this winter, by
jolly. I hev, any how," says the rural gent. "Trade's dull, eh?"

"Very--very _slack_."

"Dullest time of the year, I reckon, ain't it?"

"Pretty much so, indeed," says the storekeeper.

"I don't see's Californy goold gets much plentier, or business much
better, nowhere."

To this bit of cogent reason our friend replied--

"Not much--that's a fact."

"I 'spect there's a good deal of humbug about the Californy goold mines,
don't you?"

"The wealth of the country or the ease of coming at it," said the
storekeeper, "is no doubt exaggerated some."

"That's my opinion on't too," said the agriculturist. "Some make money
out there, and then agin some don't; I reckon more don't than does." To
this bright inference the storekeeper ventured to say--

"I think it's highly _probable_."

"All your folks are lively, eh?" inquired Smallpotatoes.

"Pretty much so," said the storekeeper; "troubled a little with
influenza, colds, &c.; nothing serious, however."

"Well, I'm glad to hear it."

"All your folks are well, I believe you said?" the storekeeper, in
apparent solicitude, inquired, to be reassured of the fact.

"Ye-e-e-s, exceptin' the old lady."

Another pause; we began to feel convinced there was speculation in the
rural gent's "eyes," and just for the fun of the thing--as we "were up"
to such dodges--we determined to hang on and see how he come out.

"Well, I declare, I must be goin'!" suddenly said the rural gent, and
actually made five steps towards the handle of the door.

"Don't be in a hurry," echoed the storekeeper. "When did you come in
town?"

"I come in this mornin'."

"Any of the folks in with you?"

"No; my wife did want to come in, but concluded it was too cold;
'spected some of your folks out to see us durin' this good
sleighing--why didn't you come?"

"Couldn't very well spare time," said the storekeeper.

"Well, we'd been glad to see you, and if you get time, and the sleighin'
holds out, you must come and see us."

"I may--I can't promise for certain."

Now another pause took place, and thinks we--the climax has come,
surely, after all that small talk. The country gent walked deliberately
to the door; he actually took hold of the knob.

"You off?" says the storekeeper.

"B'lieve I'll be off"--opening the door, then rushes back
again--semi-excited by the force of some pent up idea, says the rural
gent--"O! Mr. ----, _don't you want to buy some good fresh eggs_?"

"Eggs? Yes, I do; been looking all around for some fresh eggs; how many
have you?"

"Five dozen; thought you'd want some; so I come right in to see!"

We nearly catapillered! After all this circumlocution, the man came to
the _pint_, and--sold his eggs in two minutes!




Jolly Old Times.


Either mankind or his constitution has changed since "the good old
times," for we read in an old medicine book, that bleeding at the nose,
and cramp, could be effectually prevented by wearing a dried toad in a
bag at the pit of the stomach; while for rheumatism and consumption, a
snake skin worn in the crown of your hat, was a sovereign remedy! Dried
toads and snake skins are quite out of use around these settlements, and
we think the Esculapius who would recommend such nostrums, would be
looked upon as a poor devil with a fissure in his cranium, liable to
cause his brains to become weather-beaten! We remember hearing of a
learned old cuffy, who lived down "dar" near Tallahassee, who invariably
recommended cayenne pepper in the eye to cure the toothache! Had this
venerable old  gem'n lived 200 years ago, he would doubtless have
created a sensation in the medical circles!




The Pigeon Express Man.


In nearly all yarns or plays in which Yankees figure, they are supposed
to be "a leetle teu darn'd ceute" for almost any body else, creating a
heap of fun, and coming out clean ahead; but that even Connecticut
Yankees--the cutest and all firedest _tight_ critters on the face of the
_yearth_, when money or trade's in the question--are "_done_" now and
then, upon the most scientific principles, we are going to prove.

It is generally known, in the newspaper world, that two or three Eastern
men, a few years ago, started a paper in Philadelphia, upon the penny
principle, and have since been rewarded as they deserved. They were, and
are, men of great enterprise and liberality, as far as their business is
concerned, and thereby they got ahead of all competition, and made their
_pile_. The proprietors were always "fly" for any new dodge, by which
they could keep the lead of things, and monopolize the _news_ market.
The Telegraph had not "turned up" in the day of which we write--the
_mails_, and, now and then, express horse lines, were the media through
which _Great Excitements! Alarming Events!! Great Fires and Awful
Calamities!!_ were come at. One morning, as one of these gentlemen was
sitting in his office, a long, lank genius, with a visage as
hatchet-faced and keen as any Connecticut Yankee's on record, came in,
and inquired of one of the clerks for the proprietors of that
institution. Being pointed out, the thin man made a _lean_ towards him.
After getting close up, and twisting and screwing around his head to see
that nobody was listening or looking, the lean man sat down very
gingerly upon the extreme verge of a chair, and leaning forward until
his razor-made nose almost touched that of the publisher, in a low,
nasal, anxious tone, says he,

"Air yeou one of the publishers of this paper?"

"I am, sir."

"Oh, yeou, sir!" said the visitor, again looking suspiciously around and
about him.

"Did you ever hear tell of the _Pigeon Express_?" he continued.

"The Pigeon Express?" echoed the publisher.

"Ya-a-s. Carrier pigeons--letters to their l-e-g-s and newspapers under
their wings--trained to fly any where you warnt 'em."

"Carrier Pigeons," mused the publisher--"Carrier--pigeons trained to
carry billets--bulletins and--"

"Go frum fifty to a hundred miles an hour!" chimed in the stranger.

"True, so they say, very true," continued the publisher, musingly.

"Elegant things for gettin' or sendin' noos head of every body else."

"Precisely: that's a fact, that's a fact," the other responded, rising
from his chair and pacing the floor, as though rather and decidedly
_taken_ by the novelty and feasibility of the operation.

"You'd have 'em all, Mister, dead as mutton, by a Pigeon Express."

"I like the idea; good, first rate!"

"Can't be beat, noheow!" said the stranger.

"But what would it cost?"

"Two hundred dollars, and a small wagon, to begin on."

"A small wagon?"

"Ya-a-s. Yeou see, Mister, the birds haff to be trained to fly from one
_pint_ to another!"

"Yes; well?"

"Wa-a-ll, yeou see the birds are put in a box, on the top of the
bildin', for a spell, teu git the _hang_ of things, and so on!"

"Yes, very well; go on."

"Then the birds are put in a cage, the trainer takes 'em into his
wagon--ten miles at first--throws 'em up, and the birds go to the
bildin'. Next day fifteen miles, and so forth; yeou see?"

"Perfectly; I understand; now, where can these birds be had?"

Putting his thin lips close to the publisher's opening ears, in a low,
long way, says the stranger--

"_I've got 'em!_ R-a-l-e Persian birds--be-e-utis!"

"You understand training them?" says the anxious publisher.

"_Like a book_," the stranger responded.

"Where are the birds?" the publisher inquired.

"I've got 'em down to the tavern, where I'm stoppin'."

"Bring them up; let me see them; let me see them!"

"Certainly, Mister, of course," responded the Pigeon express man,
leaving the presence of the tickled-to-death publisher, who paced his
office as full of effervescence as a jimmyjohn of spruce beer in dog
days.

About this time pigeons were being trained, and in a few cases, now and
then, really did carry messages for lottery ticket venders in Jersey
City, to Philadelphia, Wilmington, and Baltimore; but these exploits
rarely paid first cost, and did not amount to much, although some noise
was made about the wonderful performance of certain Carrier Pigeons. But
the _paper_ was to have a new impulse--astonish all creation and the
rest of mankind, by Pigeon Express. The publisher's partner was in New
York, fishing for novelties, and he determined to astonish him, on his
return home, by the _bird business!_ A coop was fixed on the top of the
"bildin'," as the great inventor of the express had suggested. The
wagon was bought, and, with two hundred dollars in for funds, passed
over to the pigeon express man, who, in the course of a few days, takes
the birds into his wagon, to take them out some few miles, throw them
up, and the publisher and a confidential friend were to be on top of the
"bildin'," looking out for them.

They kept looking!--they saw something werry like a whale, but a good
deal like a first-rate bad "_Sell!_" The lapse of a few days was quite
sufficient to convince the publisher that he had been taken in and done
for--regularly _picked up_ and done for,--upon the most approved and
scientific principles. Rather than let the cat out of the bag, he made
up his mind to pocket the _shave_ and keep shady, not even "letting on
to his partner," who in the course of the following week returned from
Gotham, evidently feeling as fine as silk, about something or other.

"Well, what's new in New York--got hold of any thing rich?" was the
first interrogatory.

"Hi-i-i-sh! close the door!" was the reply, indicating something very
important on the _tapis_.

"So; my dear fellow, I've got a concern, now, that will put the
sixpennies to sleep as sound as rocks!"

"No. What have you started in Gotham?"

"Exactly. If you don't own up the corn, that the idea is
grand--immense--I'll knock under."

"Good! I'm glad--particularly glad you've found something new and
startling," responded the other. "Well, what is it?"

"Great!--wonderful!--_Carrier Pigeons!_"

"What! Pigeons?"

"_Pigeons!_"

"You don't pretend to say that--"

"Yes, sir, all arranged--luckiest fellows alive, we are--"

"Well, but--"

"Oh, don't be uneasy--I fixed it."

"Well, I'm hanged if this isn't rich!" muttered his partner, sticking
his digits into his trowserloons--biting his lips and stamping around.

"Rich! _elegant!_ In two weeks we'll be flying our birds and--"

"Flying! Why, do you--"

"Ha! ha! I knew I'd astonish you; Tom insisted on my keeping perfectly
_mum_, until things were in regular working order; he then set the boys
to work--we have large cages on top of the building--"

"Come up on top of this building," said the partner, solemnly. "There,
do you see that bundle of laths and stuff?"

"Why--why, you don't pretend to say that--"

"I do exactly; a scamp came along here a week ago--talked nothing but
Carrier Pigeons--Pigeon Expresses--I thought I'd surprise you, and--"

"Well, well--go on."

"And by thunder I was green enough to give the fellow $200--a horse and
wagon--"

"Done! _done!_" roared the other, without waiting for further
particulars--"$200 and a horse and wagon--just what Tom and I gave the
scamp! ha! ha! ha!"

"Haw! haw! haw!" and the publishers roared under the force of the
_joke_.

Whatever became of the pigeon express man is not distinctly known; but
he is supposed to have given up the bird business, and gone into the
manufacture of woolly horses and cod-liver oil.




Jipson's Great Dinner Party.


"Well, you must do it."

"Do it?"

"Do it, sir," reiterated the lady of Jipson, a man well enough to _do_
in the world, chief clerk of a "sugar baker," and receiving his twenty
hundred dollars a year, with no perquisites, however, and--plenty of New
Hampshire contingencies, (to quote our beloved man of the million,
Theodore Parker,) poor relations.

"But, my dear Betsey, do you _know_, will you consider for once, that to
_do_ a thing of the kind--to splurge out like Tannersoil, one must
expect--at least I do--to sink a full _quarter_ of my salary, for the
current year; yes, a full quarter?"

"Oh! very well, if you are going to live up here" (Jipson had just moved
up above "Bleecker street,")--"and bought your carriage, and
engaged----"

"Two extra servant girls," chimed in Jipson.

"And a groom, sir," continued Mrs. J.

"And gone into at least six hundred to eight hundred dollars a year
extra expenses, to--a----"

"To gratify yourself, and--a----"

"Your--a--a--your vanity, Madam, you should have said, my dear."

"Don't talk that way to me--to me--you brute; you know----"

"I know all about it, my dear."

"_My dear_--bah!" said the lady; "my _dear!_ save that, Mr. Jipson, for
some of your--a--a----"

What Mrs. J. might have said, we scarce could judge; but Jipson just
then put in a "rejoinder" calculated to prevent the umpullaceous tone of
Mrs. J.'s remarks, by saying, in a very humble strain--

"Mrs. Jipson, don't make an ass of yourself: we are too old to act like
goslings, and too well acquainted, I hope, with the matters-of-fact of
every-day life, to quarrel about things beyond our reach or control."

"If you talk of things beyond your control, Mr. Jipson, I mean beyond
your reach, that your income will not permit us to live as other people
live----"

"I wouldn't like to," interposed Jipson.

"What?" asked Mrs. Jipson.

"Live like other people--that is, some people, Mrs. Jipson, that I know
of."

"You don't suppose _I'm_ going to bury myself and my poor girls in this
big house, and have those servants standing about me, their fingers in
their mouths, with nothing to do but----"

"But what?"

"But cook, and worry, and slave, and keep shut up for a----"

"For what?"

"For a--a----"

But Mrs. J. was stuck. Jipson saw that; he divined what a _point_ Mrs.
J. was about to, but could not conscientiously make, so he relieved her
with--

"My dear Betsey, it's a popular fallacy, an exploded idea, a
contemptible humbug, to live merely for your neighbors, the rabble world
at large. Thousands do it, my dear, and I've no objection to their doing
it; it's their own business, and none of mine. I have moved up town
because I thought it would be more pleasant; I bought a modest kind of
family carriage because I could afford it, and believed it would add to
our recreations and health; the carriage and horses required care; I
engaged a man to attend to them, fix up the garden, and be useful
generally, and added a girl or two to your domestic departments, in
order to lighten your own cares, &c. Now, all this, my dear woman, you
ought to know, rests a very important responsibility upon my shoulders,
health, life, and--two thousand dollars a year, and if you imagine it
compatible with common sense, or consonant with my judgment, to make an
ass or fool of myself, by going into the extravagances and tom-fooleries
of Tannersoil, our neighbor over the way, who happens for the time to be
'under government,' with a salary of nothing to speak of, but with
stealings equal to those of a successful freebooter, you--you--you have
placed a--a bad estimate upon my common sense, Madam."

With this flaring burst of eloquence, Jipson seized his hat, gloves and
cane, and soon might be seen an elderly, natty, well-shaved,
slightly-flushed gentleman taking his seat in a down town bound _bus_,
en route for the sugar bakery of the firm of Cutt, Comeagain, & Co. It
was evident, however, from the frequency with which Jipson plied his
knife and rubber to his "figgers" of the day's accounts, and the
tremulousness with which he drove the porcupine quill, that Jipson was
thinking of something else!

"Mr. Jipson, I wish you'd square up that account of Look, Sharp, & Co.,
to-day," said Mr. Cutt, entering the counting room.

"All folly!" said Jipson, scratching out a mistake from his day-book,
and not heeding the remark, though he saw the person of his employer.

"Eh?" was the ejaculation of Cutt.

"All folly!"

"I don't understand you, sir!" said Cutt, in utter astonishment.

"Oh! I beg pardon, sir," said poor Jipson; "I beg pardon, sir. Engrossed
in a little affair of my own, I quite overlooked your observation. I
will attend to the account of Look, Sharp, & Co., at once, sir;" and
while Jipson was at it, his employer went out, wondering what in faith
could be the matter with Jipson, a man whose capacity and gentlemanly
deportment the firm had tested to their satisfaction for many years
previous. The little _incident_ was mentioned to the partner, Comeagain.
The firm first laughed, then wondered what was up to disturb the usual
equilibrium of Jipson, and ended by hoping he hadn't taken to drink or
nothing!

"Guess I'd better do it," soliloquizes Jipson. "My wife is a good woman
enough, but like most women, lets her vanity trip up her common sense,
now and then; she feels cut down to know that Tannersoil's folks are
plunging out with dinners and evening parties, troops of company, piano
going, and bawling away their new fol-de-rol music. Yes, guess I'll do
it.

"Mrs. Jipson little calculates the horrors--not only in a pecuniary, but
domestic sense--that these dinners, suppers and parties to the rag-tag
and bobtail, cost many honest-meaning people, who _ought_ to be ashamed
of them.

"But, I'll do it, if it costs me the whole quarter's salary!"

A few days were sufficient to concoct details and arrange the programme.
When Mrs. Jipson discovered, as she vainly supposed, the prevalence of
"better sense" on the part of her husband, she was good as cranberry
tart, and flew around in the best of humor, to hurry up the event that
was to give _eclat_ to the new residence and family of the Jipsons,
slightly dim the radiance or mushroom glory of the Tannersoil family,
and create a commotion generally--above Bleecker street!

Jipson _drew_ on his employers, for a quarter's salary. The draft was
honored, of course, but it led to some _speculation_ on the part of "the
firm," as to what Jipson was up to, and whether he wasn't getting into
evil habits, and decidedly bad economy in his old age. Jipson talked,
Mrs. Jipson talked. Their almost--in fact, Mrs. J., like most ambitious
mothers, thought, _really_--marriageable daughters dreamed and talked
dinner parties for the full month, ere the great event of their lives
came duly off.

One of the seeming difficulties was who to invite--who to get to come,
and _where_ to get them! Now, originally, the Jipsons were from the
"Hills of New Hampshire, of poor but respectable" birth. Fifteen years
in the great metropolis had not created a very extensive acquaintance
among solid folks; in fact, New York society fluctuates, ebbs and flows
at such a rate, that society--such as domestic people might recognize as
unequivocally genteel--is hard to fasten to or find. But one of the Miss
Jipsons possessed an acquaintance with a Miss Somebody else, whose
brother was a young gentleman of very _distingue_ air, and who knew the
entire "ropes" of fashionable life, and people who enjoyed that sort of
existence in the gay metropolis.

Mr. Theophilus Smith, therefore, was eventually engaged. It was his, as
many others' vocation, to arrange details, command the feast, select the
company, and control the coming event. The Jipsons confined their
invitations to the few, very few genteel of the family, and even the
diminutiveness of the number invited was decimated by Mr. Smith, who was
permitted to review the parties invited.

Few domiciles--of civilian, "above Bleecker st.,"--were better
illuminated, set off and detailed than that of Jipson, on the evening of
the ever-memorable dinner. Smith had volunteered to "engage" a whole set
of silver from Tinplate & Co., who generously offer our ambitious
citizens such opportunities to splurge, for a fair consideration; while
china, porcelain, a dozen  waiters in white aprons, with six
plethoric fiddlers and tooters, were also in Smith's programme. Jipson
at first was puzzled to know where he could find volunteers to fill two
dozen chairs, but when night came, Mr. Theophilus Smith, by force of
tactics truly wonderful, drummed in a force to face a gross of plates,
napkins and wine glasses.

Mrs. Jipson was evidently astonished, the Misses J. not a little vexed
at the "raft" of elegant ladies present, and the independent manner in
which they monopolized attention and made themselves at home.

Jipson swore inwardly, and looked like "a sorry man." Smith was at home,
in his element; he was head and foot of the party. Himself and friends
soon led and ruled the feast. The band struck up; the corks flew, the
wine _fizzed_, the ceilings were spattered, and the walls tattooed with
Burgundy, Claret and Champagne!

"To our host!" cries Smith.

"Yes--ah! 'ere's--ah! to our a--our host!" echoes another swell, already
insolently "corned."

"Where the--a--where is our worthy host?" says another specimen of
"above Bleecker street" genteel society. "I--a say, trot out your host,
and let's give the old fellow a toast!"

"Ha! ha! b-wavo! b-wavo!" exclaimed a dozen shot-in-the-neck bloods,
spilling their wine over the carpets, one another, and table covers.

"This is intolerable!" gasps poor Jipson, who was in the act of being
kept _cool_ by his wife, in the drawing-room.

"Never mind, Jipson----"

"Ah! there's the old fellaw!" cries one of the swells.

"I-ah--say, Mister----"

"Old roostaw, I say----"

"Gentlemen!" roars Jipson, rushing forward, elevating his voice and
fists.

"For heaven's sake! Jipson," cries the wife.

"Gentlemen, or bla'guards, as you are."

"Oh! oh! Jipson, will you hear me?" imploringly cries Mrs. Jipson.

"What--ah--are you at? Does he--ah----"

"Yes, what--ah--does old Jip say?"

"Who the deuce, old What's-your-name, do you call gentlemen?" chimes in
a third.

"Bla'guards!" roars Jipson.

"Oh, veri well, veri well, old fellow, we--ah--are--ah--to blame
for--ah--patronizing a snob," continues a swell.

"A what?" shouts Jipson.

"A plebeian!"

"A codfish--ah----"

"Villains! scoundrels! bla'guards!" shouts the outraged Jipson, rushing
at the intoxicated swells, and hitting right and left, upsetting chairs,
tables, and lamps.

"Murder!" cries a knocked down guest.

"E-e-e-e-e-e!" scream the ladies.

"Don't! E-e-e-e! don't kill my father!" screams the daughter.

Chairs and hats flew; the <DW64> servants and Dutch fiddlers, only
engaged for the occasion, taking no interest in a free fight, and not
caring two cents who whipped, laid back and--

"Yaw! ha! ha! De lor'! Yaw! ha! ha!"

Mrs. Jipson fainted; ditto two others of the family; the men folks (!)
began to travel; the ladies (!) screamed; called for their hats, shawls,
and _chaperones_,--the most of the latter, however, were _non est_, or
too well "set up," to heed the common state of affairs.

Jipson finally cleared the house. Silence reigned within the walls for a
week. In the interim, Mrs. Jipson and the daughters not only got over
their hysterics, but ideas of gentility, as practised "above Bleecker
street." It took poor Jipson an entire year to recuperate his financial
"outs," while it took the whole family quite as long to get over their
grand debut as followers of fashion in the great metropolis.




Look out for them Lobsters.


Deacon ----, who resides in a pleasant village inside of an hour's ride
upon Fitchburg road, rejoices in a fondness for the long-tailed
_crustacea_, vulgarly known as lobsters. And, from messes therewith
fulminated, by _some_ of our professors of gastronomics that we have
seen, we do not attach any wonder at all to the deacon's penchant for
the aforesaid shell-fish. The deacon had been disappointed several times
by assertions of the lobster merchants, who, in their overwhelming zeal
to effect a sale, had been a little too sanguine of the precise _time_
said lobsters were caught and boiled; hence, after lugging home a ten
pound specimen of the vasty deep, miles out into the quiet country, the
deacon was often sorely vexed to find the lobster no better than it
should be!

"Why don't you get them alive, deacon?" said a friend,--"get them alive
and kicking, deacon; boil them yourself; be sure of their freshness, and
have them cooked more carefully and properly."

"Well said," quoth the deacon; "so I can, for they sell them, I observe,
near the depot,--right out of the boat. I'm much obliged for the
notion."

The next visit of the good deacon to Boston,--as he was about to return
home, he goes to the bridge and bargains for two live lobsters, fine,
active, lusty-clawed fellows, alive and kicking, and no mistake!

"But what will I do with them?" says the deacon to the purveyor of the
_crustacea_, as he gazed wistfully upon the two sprawling, ugly, green
and scratching lobsters, as they lay before him upon the planks at his
feet.

"Do with 'em?" responded the lobster merchant,--"why, bile 'em and eat
'em! I bet you a dollar you never ate better lobsters 'n them, nohow,
mister!"

The deacon looked anxiously and innocently at the speaker, as much as to
say--"you don't say so?"

"I mean, friend, how shall I get them home?"

"O," says the lobster merchant, "that's easy enough; here, Saul," says
he, calling up a frizzle-headed lad in blue pants--_sans_ hat or boots,
and but one _gallows_ to his breeches, "here, you, light upon these
lobsters and carry 'em home for this old gentleman."

"Goodness, bless you," says the deacon; "why friend, I reside ten miles
out in the country!"

"O, the blazes you do!" says the lobster merchant; "well, I tell you,
Saul can carry 'em to the cars for you in this 'ere bag, if you're goin'
out?"

"Truly, he can," quoth the deacon; "and Saul can go right along with
me."

The lobsters were dashed into a piece of Manilla sack, thrown across the
shoulders of the juvenile Saul, and away they went at the heels of the
deacon, to the depot; here Saul dashed down the "poor creturs" until
their bones or shells rattled most piteously, and as the deacon handed a
"three cent piece" to Saul, the long and wicked claw of one of the
lobsters protruded out of the bag--opened and shut with a _clack_, that
made the deacon shudder!

"Those fellows are plaguy awkward to handle, are they not, my son?" says
the deacon.

"Not _werry_," says the boy; "they can't bite, cos you see they's got
pegs down here--_hallo!_" As Saul poked his hand down towards the big
claw lying partly out of the open-mouthed bag, the claw opened, and
_clacked_ at his fingers, ferocious as a mad dog.

"His peg's out," said the boy--"and I can't fasten it; but here's a
chunk of twine; tie the bag and they can't get out, any how, and you
kin put 'em into yer pot right out of the bag."

"Yes, yes," says the deacon; "I guess I will take care of them; bring
them here; there, just place the bag right in under my seat; so, that
will do."

Presently the cars began to fill up, as the minute of departure
approached, and soon every seat around the worthy deacon was occupied.
By-and-by, "a middle-aged lady," in front of the deacon, began to
_fussle_ about and twist around, as if anxious to arrange the great
amplitude of her _drapery_, and look after something "bothering" her
feet. In front of the lady, sat a _slab_-sided _genus_ dandy, fat as a
match and quite as good looking; between his legs sat a pale-face dog,
with a flashing collar of brass and tinsel, quite as gaudy as his
master's neck-choker; this canine gave an awful--

"_Ihk!_ ow, yow! yow-oo--yow, ook! yow! _yow!_ YOW!"

"Lor' a massy!" cries the woman in front of the deacon, jumping up, and
making a desperate splurge to get up on to the seats, and in the effort
upsetting sundry bundles and parcels around her!

"Yow-_ook!_ Yow-_ook!_" yelled the dog, jumping clear out of the grasp
of the juvenile _Mantillini_, and dashing himself on to the head and
shoulders of the next seat occupants, one of whom was a sturdy civilized
Irishman, who made "no bones" in grasping the sickly-looking dog, and to
the horror and alarm of the entire female party present, he sung out:

"Whur-r-r ye about, ye brute! Is the divil _mad_?"

"Eee! Ee! O dear! O! O!" cries an anxious mother.

"O! O! O-o-o! save us from the dog!" cries another.

"Whur-r-r-r! ye _divil!_" cries the Irish gintilman, pinning the poor
dog down between the seats, with a force that extracted another glorious
yell.

"Ike! Ike! Ike! oo, ow! ow! Ike! Ike! Ike!"

"Murder! mur-r-r-der!" bawls another victim in the rear of the deacon,
leaping up in his seat, and rubbing his leg vigorously.

"What on airth's loose?" exclaims one.

"Halloo! what's that?" cries another, hastily vacating his seat and
crowding towards the door.

"O dear, O! O!" anxiously cries a delicate young lady.

"What? who? where?" screamed a dozen at once.

"Good _conscience!_" exclaims the deacon, as he dropped his newspaper,
in the midst of the din--noise and confusion; and with a most singular
and spasmodic effort to dance a "_high_land fling," he hustled out of
his seat, exclaiming:

"Good conscience, I really believe they're out."

"Eh? What--what's out?" cries one.

"Snakes!" echoes an old gentleman, grasping a cane.

"Snappin' turtles, Mister?" inquire several.

"Snakes!" cried a dozen.

"Snappers!" echoes a like quantity of the dismayed.

"Snapper-r-r-r-rs!"

"Snake-e-e-es!" O what a din!

"Halloo! here, what's all this? What's the matter?" says the conductor,
coming to the rescue.

"That man's got snakes in the car!" roar several at once.

"And snappin' turtles, too, consarn him!" says one, while all eyes were
directed, tongues wagging, and hands gesticulating furiously at the
astonished deacon.

"Take care of them! Take care of them! I believe I'm bitten clear
through my boot--catch them, Mr. Swallow!" cries the deacon.

"Swallow 'em, Mr. Catcher!" echoes the frightened dandy.

"What? where?" says the excited conductor, looking around.

"Here, here, in under these seats, sir,--_my lobsters, sir_," says the
deacon, standing aloof to let the conductor and the man with the cane
get at the _reptiles_, as the latter insisted.

"Darn 'em, are they only lobsters!"

"Pooh! Lobsters!" says young Mantillini, with a mock heroic shrug of his
shoulders, and looking fierce as two cents!

"Come out here!" says the conductor, feeling for them.

"Take care!" says the deacon, "the plaguy things have got their pins
out!"

"Why, they are _alive_, and crawling around; hear the old fellow,--take
care, Mr. Swaller--he's cross as sin!" says the man with the
cane--"wasn't that a _snap_? Take care! You got him?" that indefatigable
assistant continued, rattling his tongue and cane.

"I've got them!" cries the conductor.

"Put them in the bag, here, sir," says the deacon.

"Take them out of this car!" cries everybody.

"Plaguy things," says the deacon. "I sha'n't never buy another _live
lobster!_"

Order was restored, passengers took their seats, but when young
Mantillini looked for his dog, he had vamosed with the _Irishman_, at
"the last stopping place," in his excitement, leaving a quart jug of
whiskey in lieu of the dandy's dog.




The Fitzfaddles at Hull.


"Well, well, drum no more about it, for mercy's sake; if you must go,
you must _go_, that's all."

"Yes, just like you, Fitzfaddle"--pettishly reiterates the lady of the
middle-aged man of business; "mention any thing that would be gratifying
to the children--"

"The children--_umph!_"

"Yes, the children; only mention taking the dear, tied-up souls to,
to--to the Springs--"

"_Haven't_ they been to Saratoga? _Didn't_ I spend a month of my
precious time and a thousand of my precious dollars there, four years
ago, to be physicked, cheated, robbed, worried, starved, and--laughed
at?" Fitzfaddle responds.

"Or, to the sea-side--" continued the lady.

"Sea-side! good conscience!" exclaims Fitzfaddle; "my dear Sook--"

"Don't call me _Sook_, Fitzfaddle; _Sook!_ I'm not _in_ the kitchen, nor
_of_ the kitchen, you'll please remember, Fitzfaddle!" said the lady,
with evident feeling.

"O," echoed Fitz, "God bless me, Mrs. Fitzfaddle, don't be so rabid;
don't be foolish, in your old days; my dear, we've spent the happiest of
our days in the kitchen; when we were first married, _Susan_, when our
whole stock in trade consisted of five ricketty chairs--"

"Well, that's enough about it--" interposed the lady.

"A plain old pine breakfast table--" continued Fitz.

"I'd stop, just THERE--" scowlingly said Mrs. Fitz.

"My father's old chest, and your mother's old corner cupboard--"
persevered the indefatigable monster.

"I'd go through the whole inventory--" angrily cried Mrs. Fitz--"clean
down to--"

"The few broken pots, pans, and dishes we had--"

"Don't you--_don't you feel ashamed of yourself_?" exclaims Mrs. Fitz,
about as full of anger as she could well contain; but Fitz keeps the
even tenor of his way.

"Not at all, my dear; Heaven forbid that I should ever forget a jot of
the real happiness of any portion of my life. When you and I, dear Sook
(an awful scowl, and a sudden change of her position, on her costly
rocking chair. Fitz looked askance at Mrs. Fitz, and proceeded); when
you and I, _Susan_, lived in Dowdy's little eight by ten 'blue frame,'
down in Pigginsborough; not a yard of carpet, or piece of mahogany, or
silver, or silk, or satin, or flummery of any sort, the five old
chairs--"

"Good conscience! are you going to have that over again?" cries Mrs.
Fitz, with the utmost chagrin.

"The old white pine table--"

Mrs. Fitz starts in horror.

"My father's old chest, and your mother's old corner cupboard!"

Mrs. Fitz, in an agony, walks the floor!

"The few broken or cracked pots, pans and dishes, we had--"

Nature quite "gin eout"--the exhausted Mrs. Fitzfaddle throws herself
down upon the sumptuous _conversazione_, and absorbs her grief in the
ample folds of a lace-wrought handkerchief (bought at Warren's--cost the
entire profits of ten quintals of Fitzfaddle & Co.'s A No. 1 cod!),
while the imperturbable Fitz drives on--

"Your mother's old cooking stove, Susan--the time and again, Susan, I've
sat in that little kitchen--"

Mrs. Fitzfaddle shudders all over. Each reminiscence, so dear to
Fitzfaddle, seems a dagger to her.

"With little Nanny--"

"You--you brute! You--you vulgar--you--you Fitzfaddle. Nanny! to call
your daughter N-Nanny!"

"Nanny! why, yes, Nanny--" says the matter-of-fact head of the firm of
Fitzfaddle & Co. "I believe we did intend to call the girl Nancy; we
_did_ call her Nanny, Mrs. Fitzfaddle; but, like all the rest, by your
innovations, things have kept changing no better fast. I believe my soul
that girl has had five changes in her name before you concluded it was
up to the highest point of modern respectability. From Nancy you had it
Nannette, from Nannette to Ninna, from Ninna to Naomi, and finally it
was rested at Anna Antoinette De Orville Fitzfaddle! Such a mess of
nonsense to _handle_ my plain name."

"Anna Antoinette De Orville"--said Mrs. Fitz, suddenly rallying, "_is_ a
name, only made _plain_ by your ugly and countryfied prefix. De Orville
is a name," said the lady.

"I should like to know," said the old gentleman, "upon what pretext,
Mrs. Fitzfaddle, you lay claim to such a Frenchy and flighty name or
title as De Orville?"

"Wasn't it my family name, you brute?" cried Mrs. Fitz.

"Ho! ho! ho! Sook, Sook, _Sook_," says Fitzfaddle.

"_Sook!_" almost screams Mrs. Fitz.

"Yes, _Sook_, Sook _Scovill_, daughter of a good old-fashioned,
patriotic farmer--_Timothy Scovill_, of Tanner's Mills, in the county of
Tuggs--down East. And when I married Sook (Mrs. Fitz jumped up, a
rustling of silk is heard--a door slams, and the old gentleman finishes
his domestic narrative, _solus!_), she was as fine a gal as the State
ever produced. We were poor, and we knew it; wasn't discouraged or put
out, on the account of our poverty. We started in the world square;
happy as clams, nothing but what was useful around us; it is a happy
reflection to look back upon those old chairs, pine table, my father's
old chest, and Sook's mother's old corner cupboard--the cracked pots
and pans--the old stove--Sook as ruddy and bright as a full-blown rose,
as she bent over the hot stove in our parlor, dining room, and
kitchen--turning her slap-jacks, frying, baking and boiling, and I often
by her side, with our first child, Nanny, on my--"

"Well, I hope by this time you're over your vulgar Pigginsborough
recollections, Fitzfaddle!" exclaims Mrs. Fitz, re-entering the parlor.

"I was just concluding, my dear, the happy time when I sat and read to
you, or held Nanny, while you--"

"Fitzfaddle, for goodness' sake--"

"While you--ruddy and bright, my dear, as the full-blown rose, bent over
your mother's old cook stove--"

"Are you crazy, Fitz, or do you want to craze me?" cried the really
_tried_ woman.

"Turning your slap-jacks," continues Fitz, suiting the action to the
word.

"Fitzfaddle!" cries Mrs. Fitz, in the most sublimated paroxysm of pity
and indignation, but Fitz let it come.

"_While I dandled Nanny on my knee!_"

A pause ensues; Fitzfaddle, in contemplation of the past, and Mrs. Fitz
fortifying herself for the opening of a campaign to come. At length,
after a deal of "dicker," Fitz remembering only the bad dinners, small
rooms, large bills, sick, parboiled state of the children, clash and
clamor of his trips to the Springs, sea-side and mountain resorts; and
Mrs. Fitz dwelling over the strong opposition (show and extravagance)
she had run against the many ambitious shop-keepers' wives, tradesmen's,
lawyers' and doctors' daughters--Mrs. Fitz gained her point, and the
family,--Mrs. Fitz, the two now marriageable daughters--Anna Antoinette
De Orville, and Eugenia Heloise De Orville, and Alexander Montressor De
Orville, and two servants--start in style, for the famed city of Hull!

It was yet early in the season, and Fitzfaddle had secured, upon
accommodating terms, rooms &c., of Mrs. Fitzfaddle's own choosing. With
the diplomacy of five prime ministers, and with all the pride, pomp and
circumstance of a fine-looking woman of two-and-forty,--husband rich,
and indulgent at that; armed with two "marriageable daughters," you
may--if at all familiar with life at a "watering-place," fancy Mrs.
Fitzfaddle's feelings, and perhaps, also, about a third of the _swarth_
she cut. The first evident opposition Mrs. Fitz encountered, was from
the wife of a wine merchant. This lady made her _entree_ at ---- House,
with a pair of bays and "body servant," two poodles, and an immensity of
band boxes, patent leather trunks, and--her husband. The first day Mrs.
Oldport sat at table, her new style of dress, and her European jewels,
were the afternoon talk; but at tea, the Fitzfaddles _spread_, and Mrs.
Oldport was bedimmed, easy; the next day, however, "turned up" an
artist's wife and daughter, whose unique elegance of dress and
proficiency in music took down the entire collection! Mrs. Michael
Angelo Smythe and daughter captivated two of Mrs. Fitzfaddle's
"circle"--a young naval gent and a 'quasi Southern planter, much to her
chagrin and Fitzfaddle's pecuniary suffering; for next evening Mrs. F.
got up,--to get back her two recruits--a grand private _hop_, at a cost
of $130! And the close of the week brought such a cloud of beauty,
jewels, marriageable daughters and ambitious mothers, wives, &c., that
Mrs. Fitzfaddle got into such a worry with her diplomatic arrangements,
her competitions, stratagems,--her fuss, her jewels, silks, satins and
feathers, that a nervous-headache preceded a typhus fever, and the
unfortunate lady was forced to retire from the field of her glory at the
end of the third week, entirely prostrated; and poor Jonas Fitzfaddle
out of pocket--more or less--_five hundred dollars!_ The last we heard
of Fitzfaddle, he was apostrophizing the good old times when he rejoiced
in five old chairs--cook stove--slap-jacks, &c.!




Putting Me on a Platform!


Human nature doubtless has a great many weak points, and no few bipeds
have a great itching after notoriety and fame. Fame, I am credibly
informed, is not unlike a greased pig, always hard chased, but too
eternal slippery for every body to hold on to! I have never cared a
tinker's curse for glory myself; the satisfaction of getting quietly
along, while in pursuit of bread, comfort and knowledge, has sufficed to
engross my individual attention; but I've often "had my joke" by
observing the various grand dashes made by cords of folks, from snob to
nob, patrician to plebeian, in their gyrations to form a circle, in
which they might be the centre pin! This desire, or feeling, is a part
and parcel of human nature; you will observe it every where--among the
dusky and man-eating citizens of the Fejee Islands--the dog-eating
population of China--the beef-eaters of England, and their descendants,
ye _Yankoos_ of the new world; all, all have a tendency for lionization.

This very _innocent_ pastime finds a great many supporters, too;
toadyism is the main prop that sustains and exalteth the vain glory of
man; if you can only get a _toady_--the _more_ the better--you can the
sooner and firmer fix your digits upon the greased pig of fame; but as
thrift must always follow fawning, or toadyism, it is most essentially
necessary that you be possessed of a greater or lesser quantity of the
goods and chattels of this world, or some kind of tangible effects, to
grease the wheels of your emollient supporters; otherwise you will soon
find all your air-built castles, dignity and glory, dissolve into mere
gas, and your stern in the gravel immediately.

Such is the pursuit of glory, and such its supporters, their gas and
human weakness. I have said that I never sought distinction, but I have
had it thrust upon me more than once, and the last effort of the kind
was so particularly _salubrious_, that I must relate to you,
_confidentially_ of course, how it came about.

When I first came to Boston, as a matter of course, I spent much of my
time in surveying "the lions," dipping into this, and peeping into that;
promenading the Common and climbing the stupendous stairway of Bunker
Hill; ransacking the forts, islands, beautiful Auburn, &c., &c.

Finally, I went into the State House, but as this notable building was
undergoing some repairs, placards were tacked up about the doors,
prohibiting persons from strolling about the capitol. The attendant was
very polite, and told me, and several others desirous to see the
building inside, that if we called in the course of a few days, we could
be gratified, but for the present no one but those engaged about the
work, were allowed to enter. I persisted so closely in my desire to
examine the interior, while on the spot, that the man, when the rest of
the visitors had gone, relented, and I was not only allowed to see what
I should see, but he _toted_ me "round."

We sauntered into the Assembly Chamber, surveyed and learned all the
particulars of that, peered into the side-rooms, closets, &c., and then
came to the Senate Chamber. This you know is something finer than the
country meeting house, or circus-looking Assembly Chamber, where the
"fresh-men," or green members from Hard-Scrabble, Hull, Squantum,
etc.,--incipient Demostheneses, and sucking Ciceros, first tap their
gasometers "in the haouse." Here I found the venerable pictures of the
ancient _mugs_, who have figured as Governors, &c., of the commonwealth,
from the days of Puritan Winthrop to the ever-memorable Morton, who,
strange as it may appear, was really elected Governor, though a
double-distilled Democrat. Bucklers, swords, drums and muskets, that
doubtless rattled and banged away upon Bunker Hill, were duly, carefully
and critically examined, and as a finale to my debut in the Senate, I
mounted the Speaker's stand, and spouted about three feet of Webster's
first oration at Bunker Hill. To be sure, my audience was _small_, but
_it_ was duly attentive, and as I waved my hands aloft, and thumped my
ribs, after the most approved system of patriotic vehemence of the day,
he--my audience--opened his mouth, and stretched his eyes to the size of
dinner plates, at my prodigious slaps at eloquence; the very ears of the
_canvased_ governors seemed pricked up, and I descended the stand big as
Mogul, insinuated "a quarter" into the palm of the polite attendant,
informed him I should call in a few days to take a view from the top of
the dome, &c. He bowed and I took myself off.

Several days afterwards I found myself in the vicinity of the State
House; so, thinks I, I'll just drop in, and go up to the top of the dome
and get a view of the city and suburbs.

My chaperon was on hand, and he no sooner clapped eyes upon me, than he
pitched into all manner of highfernooten flub-dubs, bowed and scraped,
and regretted that the day was so misty and dull, as I would not be
enabled to have half a chance to get a view.

"I wouldn't try it to-day, sir," said he.

"What's the reason?" asked I.

"Oh," replied he, "you'll not see half the outline of the city and the
villages around, and you'll want to get them all down distinct."

"Get them all _down_ distinct?" quoth I.

"Yes, sir; and the day is so dull and cloudy that you'll not see half
the prominent buildings, never mind the whole of the former and not so
easily seen houses. You intend taking a full view, don't you, sir?"

"Why, yes, I would like to," says I, partly lost to conceive what caused
such a sudden and unaccountable ebullition of the man's great interest
in my getting "a first rate notice" of matters and things from the top
of the capitol! But up I went, in spite of my attentive friend's fears
of my not getting quite so clear and distinct a view as he could wish.
Having gratified myself with such a view as the weather and the height
of the capitol afforded (and in clear weather you can get far the best
survey of Boston and the environs from the top of the State House than
from any other promontory about), I descended again. At the foot of the
stairway my assiduous cicerone again beset me, introduced several other
miscellaneous-looking chaps to me, and, in short, was making of me, why
or wherefore I knew not, quite a lion!

"Well, sir," said he, "what do you think of it, sir? Could you get the
outline?"

"Not very well," said I, "but the view is very fine."

"O, yes, sir," said he; "but as soon as you wish to begin, sir, let me
know, and I'll lock the upper doors when you go up, and you'll not be
disturbed, sir."

"Lock the doors?" said I, in some amazement.

"Yes, sir," quoth he, "but it would be best to come as early in the
morning as possible, or, if convenient, before the visitors begin to
come up; they'd disturb you, you know!"

"Disturb _me!_ Why, I don't know how they would do that?"

"Why, sir, when Mr. Smith--you know Mr. Smith, sir, I suppose?"

"Why, yes; the name strikes me as _somewhat_ familiar; do you refer to
_John Smith_?" I observed, beginning to participate in the joke, which
began to develop itself pretty distinctly.

"Yes, sir; I believe his name is John--John R. Smith; he's a splendid
artist, sir; _his_ sketch or panorama is a beauty! Sir! did you ever see
his panorama?"

"I think I did, in New York," I replied.

By this time some dozen or two visitors had congregated around us, and I
was the centre of a considerable circle, and from the whispers, and
pointing of fingers, I felt duly sensible, that, great or small, I was a
LION! Under what auspices, I was in too dense a fog to make out; to me
it was an unaccountable mist'ry.

"I'll tell you what I can do, sir," continued my toady; "I can have a
small platform erected, outside of the cupola, for you, to place your
_designs_ or sketches on, and you'll not be so liable to be disturbed.
Mr. Smith, he had a platform made, sir."

I beckoned the man to step aside, in the Senate Chamber.

"Now, sir," said I, "you will please inform me, who the devil do you
take me for?"

"Oh, I knew who you were, the moment you came in, sir," said he, with a
very knowing leer out of his half-squinting eyes.

"Did you? Well then I must certainly give you credit for devilish keen
perception; but, if it's a fair question," I continued, "what do you
mean by fixing a platform for my _designs_? You don't think I'm going to
fly, jump or deliver orations from the cupola, do you?"

"No, I don't; but you're to draw a grand panorama of Boston, ain't you?"

"ME?"

"Yes, you; ain't your name Mr. Banvard?"

"Oh, yes, yes--I understand--you've found me out, but keep dark--mum's
the word--you understand?" said I, winkingly.

"Yes, sir; I'll fix it all right; you'll want the platform outside, I
guess."

"Yes; out with it, and _keep dark until I come!_"

I skeeted down them steps into the Common to let off my corked up
risibilities.--Whether the man actually did prepare a platform for my
designs, or whether Banvard ever went to take his designs there, I am
unable to say, as I went South a few days afterward, and did not return
for some time.




The Exorbitancy of Meanness.


Few _extravaganzas_ of man or woman lay such a heavy _stress_ upon the
pocket-book or purse as meanness. This may seem paradoxical, but it's
nothing of the kind. How many thousands to save a cent, walk a mile! How
many to cut down expenses, cut off a thousand of the little "filling
ins" which go to make us both happy and healthy! Jones refused to let
his little boy run an errand for Johnson, and when Jones's house was in
a blaze, Johnson forbid him touching his water to put it out. Smith by
accident ran his wagon afoul of Peppers's cart, Peppers in revenge "cut
away" at Smith's horse; horse ran away, broke the wagon, dislocated
Smith's collar-bone; a suit at law followed, and Peppers being a mighty
spunky, as well as a powerfully mean man, fought it out four years, and
finally sunk every cent he had in the world by the slight transaction.
It is a first-rate idea to be economical, but the man who sees and
feels, and smells and tastes, entirely through his pocket-book, isn't
worth cultivating an acquaintance with. Go in, marry money if you can,
save up some, but don't cultivate meanness, for it never pays.




"Taking Down" a Sheriff.


Ex-honorable John Buck, once the "representative" of a _district_ out
West, a lawyer originally, and finally a gentleman at large, and Jeremy
Diddler generally, took up his quarters in Philadelphia, years ago, and
putting himself upon his dignity, he managed for a time, _sans
l'argent_, to live like a prince. Buck was what the world would call a
devilish clever fellow; he was something of a scholar, with the
smattering of a gentleman; good at off-hand dinner table oratory, good
looking, and what never fails to take down the ladies, he wore hair
enough about his countenance to establish two Italian grand dukes. Buck
was "an awful blower," but possessed common-sense enough not to waste
his _gas_-conade--ergo, he had the merit not to falsify to ye ancient
falsifiers.

The Honorable Mr. Buck's _manner_ of living not being "seconded" by a
corresponding manner of _means_, he very frequently ran things in the
ground, got in debt, head and heels. The Honorable Mr. B. had patronized
a dealer in Spanish mantles, corduroys and opera vests, to the amount of
some two hundred dollars; and, very naturally, ye fabricator of said
cloth appurtenances for ye body, got mad towards the last, and
threatened "the Western member" with a course of legal sprouts, unless
he "showed cause," or came up and squared the yards. As Hon. John Buck
had had frequent invitations to pursue such courses, and not being
spiritually or personally inclined that way, he let the notice slide.

Shears, the tailor, determined to put the Hon. John through; so he got
out a writ of the savagest kind--arson, burglary and false
pretence--and a deputy sheriff was soon on the taps to smoke the Western
member out of his boots. Upon inquiring at the United States Hotel,
where the honorable gentleman had been wont to "put up," they found he
had vacated weeks before and gone to Yohe's Hotel. Thither, the next
day, the deputy repaired, but old Mother Yohe--rest her soul!--informed
the officer that the honorable gentleman had stepped out one morning, in
a hurry like, and forgot to pay a small bill!

John was next traced to the Marshall House, where he had left his mark
and cleared for Sanderson's, where the indefatigable tailor and his
terrier of the law, pursued the member, and learned that he had gone to
Washington!

"Done! by Jeems!" cried Shears.

"Hold on," says the deputy, "hold on; he's not off; merely a dodge to
get away from this house; we'll find him. Wait!"

Shears did wait, so did the deputy sheriff, until other bills, amounting
to a good round sum, were lodged at the Sheriff's office, and the very
Sheriff himself took it in hand to nab the _cidevant_ M. C., and cause
him to suffer a little for his country and his friends!

Now, it so chanced that Sheriff F., who was a politician of popular
renown--a good, jolly fellow--knew the Hon. Mr. Buck, having had "the
pleasure of his acquaintance" some months previous, and having been
_floored_ in a political argument with the "Western member," was
inclined to be down upon him.

"I'll snake him, I'll engage," says Sheriff F., as he thrust "the
documents" into his pocket and proceeded to hunt up the transgressor.
Accidentally, as it were, who should the Sheriff meet, turning a corner
into the grand _trottoir_, Chestnut street, but our gallant hero of ye
ballot-box in the rural districts, once upon a time!

"Ah, ha-a-a! How are ye, Sheriff?" boisterously exclaims the Ex-M. C.,
as familiarly as you please.

"Ah, ha! Mr. Buck," says the Sheriff, "glad (?) to see you."

"Fine day, Sheriff?"

"Elegant, sir, _prime_," says the Sheriff.

"What do you think of Mr. Jigger's speech on the Clam trade? Did you
read Mr. Porkapog's speech on the widening of Jenkins's ditch?"

For which general remarks on the affairs of the nation, Sheriff F. _put_
some corresponding replies, and so they proceeded along until they
approached a well-known dining saloon, then under the supervision of a
burly Englishman; and, as it was about the time people dined, and the
Sheriff being a man that liked a fat dinner and a fine bottle, about as
well as any body, when the Hon. Mr. Buck proposed--

"What say you, Sheriff, to a dinner and a bottle of old Sherry, at ----?
We don't often meet (?), so let's sit down and have a quiet talk over
things."

"Well, Mr. Buck," says the Sheriff, "I would like to, just as soon as
not, but I've got a disagreeable bit of business with you, and it would
be hardly friendly to eat your dinner before apprizing you of the fact,
sir."

"Ah! Sheriff, what is it, pray?" says the somewhat alarmed Diddler;
"nothing serious, of course?"

"Oh, no, not serious, particularly; only a _writ_, Mr. Buck; a writ,
that's all."

"For my arrest?"

"Your arrest, sir, on sight," says the Sheriff.

"The deuce! What's the charge!"

"Debt--false pretence--_swindling!_"

"Ha! ha! that is a good one!" says the slight'y cornered Ex-M. C.;
"well, hang it, Sheriff, don't let business spoil our digestion; come,
let us dine, and then I'm ready for execution!" says the "Western
member," with well affected gaiety.

Stepping into a private room, they rang the bell, and a burly waiter
appeared.

"Now, Mr. F.," says the adroit Ex-M. C., "call for just what you like; I
leave it to you, sir."

"Roast ducks; what do you say, Buck?"

"Good."

"Oyster sauce and lobster salad?"

"Good," again echoes the Ex-M. C.

"And a--Well, waiter, you bring some of the best side dishes you have,"
says the Sheriff.

"Yes, sir," says the waiter, disappearing to fill the order.

"What are you going to drink, Sheriff?" asks the honorable gent.

"Oh! ah, yes! Waiter, bring us a bottle of Sherry; you take Sherry,
Buck?"

"Yes, I'll go Sherry."

The Sherry was brought, and partly discussed by the time the dinner was
spread.

"They keep the finest Port here you ever tasted," says the Diddler.

"Do they!" he responds; "well, suppose we try it?"

A bottle of old Port was brought, and the two worthies sat back and
really enjoyed themselves in the saloon of the sumptuously kept
restaurant; they then drank and smoked, until sated nature cried enough,
and the Sheriff began to think of business.

"Suppose we top off with a fine bottle of English ale, Sheriff!"

"Well, be it so; and then, Buck, we'll have to proceed to the office."

"Waiter, bring me a couple of bottles of your English ale," says the
Hon. Mr. Buck.

"Yes, sir."

"And I'll see to the bill, Sheriff, while the waiter brings the ale,"
said the Ex-M. C., leaving the room "for a moment," to speak to the
landlord.

"Landlord," says the Diddler, "do you know that gentleman with whom I've
dined in 15?"

"No, I don't," says the landlord.

"Well," continues Diddler, "I've no _particular_ acquaintance with him;
he invited me here to dine; I suppose he intends to pay for what he
ordered, but (whispering) _you had better get your money before he gets
out of that room!_"

"Oh! oh! coming that are dodge, eh? I'll show him!" said the burly
landlord, making tracks for the room, from which the Sheriff was now
emerging, to look after his prisoner.

"There's for the ale," says the Diddler, placing half a dollar in the
waiter's hand; "I ordered that, and there's for it." So saying, he
vamosed.

"Say, but look here, Buck, I say, hold on; I've got a writ, and--"

"Hang the writ! Pay your bill like a gentleman, and come along!"
exclaimed the Ex-M. C., making himself _scarce!_

It was in vain that the Sheriff stated his "authority," and innocence in
the pecuniary affairs of the dinner, for the waiter swore roundly that
the other gentleman had paid for all he ordered, and the landlord, who
could not be convinced to the contrary, swore that the idea was to gouge
him, which couldn't be done, and before the Sheriff got off, he had his
wallet depleted of five dollars; and he not only lost his prisoner, but
lost his temper, at the trick played upon him by the Hon. Jeremy
Diddler.




Governor Mifflin's First Coal Fire.


It is truly astonishing, that the inexhaustible beds--mines of
anthracite coal, lying along the Schuylkill river and ridges, valleys
and mountains, from old Berks county to the mountains of Shamokin, were
not found out and applied to domestic uses, fully fifty years before
they were! Coal has been exhumed from the earth, and burned in forges
and grates in Europe, from time immemorial, we think, yet we distinctly
remember when a few canal boats only were engaged in transporting from
the few mines that were open and worked along the Schuylkill--the
comparatively few tons of anthracite coal consumed in Philadelphia, not
sent away. As far back as 1820, we believe, there was but little if any
coal shipped to Philadelphia, from the Schuylkill mines at all.

Our venerable friend, the still vivacious and clear-headed Col. Davis,
of Delaware, gave us, a few years ago, a rather amusing account of the
first successful attempt of a very distinguished old gentleman, Gov.
Mifflin, to ignite a pile of stone coal. The date of the transaction,
more's the pity, has escaped us, but the facts of the case are something
after this fashion.

Gov. Mifflin, of Pennsylvania, lived and owned a fine estate in Mifflin
county, and in which county was discovered from time to time, any
quantity of black rock, as the farmers commonly called the then unknown
anthracite. Of course, the old governor knew something about stone coal,
and had a slight inkling of its character. At hours of leisure, the
governor was in the habit of experimenting upon the black rocks by
subjecting them to wood fire upon his hearths; but the hard, almost
flint-like anthracite of that region resisted, with most obdurate
pertinacity, the oft-repeated attempts of the governor to set it on
fire. It finally became a joke among the neighboring Pennsylvania Dutch
farmers, and others of the vicinity, that Gov. Mifflin was studying out
a theory to set his hills and fields on fire, and burn out the obnoxious
black rock and boulders. But, despite the jibes and jokes of his
dogmatical friends, the old governor stuck to his experiments, and the
result produced, as most generally it does through perseverance and
practice, a new and useful fact, or principle.

One cold and wintry day, Gov. Mifflin was cosily perched up in his
easy-chair, before the great roaring, blazing hickory fire, overhauling
ponderous state documents, and deeply engrossed in the affairs of the
people, when his eye caught the outline of a big black rock boulder upon
the mantle-piece before him--it was a beautiful specimen of variegated
anthracite, with all the hues of the rainbow beaming from its lacquered
angles. The governor thought "a heap" of this specimen of the black
rock, but dropping all the documents and State papers pell-mell upon the
floor, he seized the piece of anthracite, and placing it carefully upon
the blazing cross-sticks of the fire, in the most absorbed manner
watched the operation. To his great delight the black rock was soon red
hot--he called for his servant man, a sable son of Africa, or some down
South Congo--

"Isaac."

"Yes, sah, I'se heah, sah."

"Isaac, run out to the carriage-house, and get a piece of that black
rock."

"Yes, sah, I'se gone."

In a twinkling the <DW64> had obtained a huge lump of the anthracite, and
handing it over to the governor, it was placed in a favorable position
alongside of the first lump, and the governor's eyes fairly danced
polkas as he witnessed the fact of the two pieces of black rock
assuming a red hot complexion.

"Isaac!" again exclaimed the governor.

"Yes, sah."

"Run out--get another lump."

"Yes, sah."

A third lump was added to the fire; the company in the governor's
private parlor was augmented by the appearance of the governor's lady
and other portions of the family, who, seeing Isaac lugging in the
rocks, came to the conclusion that the governor was going "clean crazy"
over his experiments. It was in vain Mrs. Mifflin and the daughters
tried to suspend the functions of the "chief magistrate," over the
roaring fire.

"Go away, women; what do you know about mineralogy, igniting anthracite?
Go way; close the doors; I've got the rocks on fire--I'll make them
laugh t'other side of their mouths, at my black rock fires!"

In the midst of the excitement, as the governor was perspiring and
exulting over his fiery operation, a carriage drove up, and two
gentlemen alighted, and desired an immediate audience with Gov. Mifflin;
but so deeply engaged was the governor, that he refused the strangers an
audience, and while directing Isaac to tell the strangers that they must
"come to-morrow," and while he continued to pile on more black rocks,
brought in by Isaac, in rushed the strangers.

"Good day, governor; you must excuse us, but our business admits of no
delay."

"Can't help it, can't help you--see how it blazes, see how it burns!"
cried the abstracted or mentally and physically absorbed governor.

"But, governor, the man may be hanged, if--"

"Let him be hanged--hurra! See how it burns; call in the neighbors; let
them see my black rock fire. I knew I'd surprise them!"

"But, governor, will you please delay this--"

"Delay? No, not for the President of the United States. I've been trying
this experiment for eight years. I've now succeeded--see, see how it
burns! Run, Isaac, over to Dr. ----'s, tell him to come, stop in at Mr.
S----'s, tell Mr. H---- to come, come everybody--I've got the black
rocks in a blaze!" And clapping on his hat, out ran the governor through
the storm, down to the village, like a madman, leaving the strangers and
part of his household as spectators of his fiery experiments. Just as
the governor cleared his own door, a pedler wagon "drove up," and the
pedler, seeing the governor starting out in such double quick time,
hailed him.

"Hel-lo! Sa-a-a-y, yeou heold on--_yeou the guv'ner_?"

"Clear out!" roared the chief magistrate.

"Shain't deu nothin' of the sort, no how!" says the pedler, dismounting
from his wagon, and making his appearance at the front door, where he
encountered the two rather astonished strangers--legal gentlemen of some
eminence, from Harrisburg, with a petition for the respite of execution.

"Halloo! which o' yeou be the guv'ner?" says the pedler.

"Neither of us," replied the gentlemen; "that was the governor you spoke
to as you drove up."

"Yeou dun't say so! Wall, he was pesky mad about som'-thin'. What on
airth ails the ole feller?"

"Can't say," was the response; "but here he comes again."

"Now, now come in, come in and see for yourselves," cried the excited
Governor of the great Key Stone State; "there's a roaring fire of
burning, blazing, black rock, anthracite coal!"

But, alas! the cross sticks having given away in the interim, and the
coal being thrown down upon the ashes and stone hearth,--_was all out!_

"Wall," says our migratory Yankee, who followed the crowd into the
house, "I guess I know what yeou be at, guv'ner, but I'll tell yeou
naow, yeou can't begin to keep that darn'd hard stuff burning, 'less
yeou fix it up in a grate, like, gin it air, and an almighty draught;
yeou see, guv'ner, I've been making experiments a darn'd long while with
it!"

The laugh of the governor's friends subsided as the pedler went into a
practical theory on burning stone coal; the _respite_ was
signed--hospitalities of the mansion extended to all present, and in
course of a few days, our Yankee and the governor rigged up a grate, and
soon settled the question--will our black rocks burn?




Sure Cure.


Travel is a good invention to cure the blues and condense worldly
effects. When Cutaway went to California, "I carried," said he, "a pile
of despondency, and more baggage, boots, and boxes, than would fit out a
caravan. After an absence of just fourteen calendar months, I started
homewards, and was so boiling over with hope and fond anticipation, that
I could hardly keep in my old boots! And all the _dunnage_ I had left,
wouldn't fill a pocket-handkerchief, or sell to a paper-maker for four
cents!"

Cutaway recommends seeing the _worldy_ elephant, high, for settling
one's mind, and scattering goods, gold, and chattels.




Chasing a Fugitive Subscriber.


Printers, from time immemorial--back possibly to the days of Faust--have
suffered martyrdom, more or less, at the hands of the people who didn't
pay! Many of the long-established newspaper concerns can show a "black
list" as long as the militia law, and an unpaid _cash account_ bulky
enough to take Cuba! Country publishers suffer in this way intensely.
About one half of the "subscribers" to the _Clarion of Freedom_, or the
_Universal Democrat_, or the _Whig Shot Tower_, seem to labor under the
Utopian notion that printers were made to mourn over unpaid subscription
lists; or that they "got up" papers for their own peculiar amusement,
and carried them or sent them to the doors of the public for mere
pastime! Every publisher, of about every paper we ever examined, about
this time of year, has told his own story--requested his subscribers to
come forward--pay over--help to keep the mill going--creditors
easy--fire in the stove--meal in the barrel--children in bread, butter
and shoes--Sheriff at bay, and other tragical affairs connected with the
operations attendant upon unsettled cash accounts! But, how many heed
such "notices?" Paying subscribers do not read them--such applications
do not apply to them--_they_ regret to see them in the paper, and, like
honest, common-sensed people, don't probe or meddle with other people's
shortcomings. The delinquent subscriber don't read such _calls_ upon his
humanity--they are distasteful to him; he may squint and grin over the
_notice_ to pay up, and chuckles to himself--"Ah, umph! dun away, old
feller; I ain't one o' that kind that sends money by mail; it might be
lost, and the man that duns _me_ for two or three dollars' worth of
newspapers, _may get it if he knows how_."

Well, the good time has _come_. Printers now may wait no longer; the
jig's up--they have found out a _way_ to get their money just as easy as
other laborers in the fields of science, art, mechanism, law, physic and
religion, get theirs. Let the printer cry _Eureka_.

Doctor Pendleton St. Clair Smith, a patron of the fine arts, best
tailors, barbers, boot blacks, and the newspaper press, was a tooth
operator of some skill and great pretension. He lived and moved in
modern style, and though no man could be more desirous of indulging in
"short credit," no man believed or acted more readily upon the
principle--

    ----"base is the slave that _pays_."

Dr. P. St. C. Smith "slipped up" one day, leaving the _well done_
community of Boston and the environs, for fields more congenial to his
peculiar talents. He _stuck_ the printer, of course. His numerous
subscription accounts to the various local news and literary journals,
in the aggregate amounted to quite considerable; and the printers didn't
begin to like it! Now, it takes a Yankee to head off a Yankee, and about
this time a live, double-grand-action Yankee, named Peabody, possibly,
happened in at one of the offices, where two brother publishers were
"making a few remarks" over delinquent subscribers, and especially were
they wrought up against and giving jessy to Dr. Pendleton St. Clair
Smith!

"How much does the feller owe you?" quoth Peabody.

"Owe? More than he'll ever pay during the present generation."

"Perhaps not," says Peabody; "now if you'll just give me the full
particulars of the man, his manners and customs, name and size, and
sell me your accounts, at a low notch, I'll buy 'em; I'll collect 'em,
too, if the feller's alive, out of jail, and any where around between
sunrise and sunset!"

The publishers laughed at the idea, sensibly, but finding that Peabody
was up for a trade, they traced out the accounts, &c., and for a five
dollar bill, Mr. Peabody was put in possession of an account of some
twenty odd dollars and cents against Dr. P. St. C. Smith.

Now Peabody had, some time previous to this transaction, established a
peculiar kind of Telegraph, a human galvanic battery, or endless chain
of them, extending all over the country, for collecting bad debts, and
_shocking_ fugitives, or stubborn creditors! By a continuation of
faculties, causes and effects--shrewdness and forethought peculiar to a
man capable of seeing considerably deep into millstones--Peabody
couldn't be _dodged_. If he ever got his _feelers_ on to a subject, the
_equivalent_ was bound to be turning up! It struck him that the
collection of newspaper bills afforded him a great field for working his
Telegraph, and he hasn't been mistaken.

The scene now changes; early one morning in the pleasant month of June,
as the poet might say, Dr. Pendleton St. Clair Smith was to be seen
before his toilet glass in the flourishing city of Syracuse,--giving the
finishing stroke to his highly-cultivated beard. The satisfaction with
which he made this demonstration, evinced the sereneness of his mind and
the _confidence_ with which he rested, in regard to his newspaper 'bills
in Boston. But a _tap_ is heard at his door, and at his invitation the
servant comes in, announces a gentleman in the parlor, desirous of
speaking to Dr. Smith. The Doctor waits upon the visitor--

"Dr. Pendleton St. Clair Smith, I presume?"

"Ye-e-s," slowly and suspiciously responded that individual.

"I am collector, sir," continued the stranger, "for the firm of
Peabody, Grab, Catchem, and Co., Boston. I have a small (!) bill against
you, sir, to collect."

"What for?" eagerly quoth the Doctor.

"Newspaper subscriptions and advertising, sir!"

"I a--I a, you a--well, you call in this evening," says the Doctor,
tremulously fumbling in his pockets--"I'll settle with you; good
morning."

"Good morning, sir," says the collector,--"I'll call."

That afternoon, Dr. Pendleton St. Clair Smith vamosed! He had barely got
located in Syracuse, before they had traced him; if he paid the printer,
a cloud of other debts would follow, and so he up stakes and made a
fresh _dive!_

"Now," says Dr. P. St. C. Smith, as he dumped himself and baggage down
in the beautiful city of Chicago, "Now I'll be out of the range of the
duns; they won't get sight or hearing of me, for a while, I'll bet a
hat!"

But, alas! for the delusion; the very next morning, a very suspicious,
hatchet-faced individual, made himself known as the deputed collector of
certain newspaper accounts, forwarded from Boston, by Peabody, Grab,
Catchem, & Co. The Dr. uttered a very severe _anathema_; he looked quite
streaked, he faltered; he then desired the collector to call in course
of the day, and the bill would be attended to. The collector hoped it
would be attended to, and left; so did Dr. P. St. C. Smith _in the next
mail line_.

About one month after the affair in Chicago, Dr. P. St. C. Smith was
seen strutting around in Charters st., New Orleans, confident in his
security, smiling in the brightness of the scenes around him; he had
just negotiated for an office, had already concocted his advertisements,
and subscribed for the papers, when lo! the same due bill from Boston
appeared to him, in the hand of an _agent_ of Peabody, Grab, Catchem &
Co. The Dr. was almost tempted to pay the bill! But, then, perhaps the
_agent_ had a hat full of others--from the same place--for larger
amounts! The next day the Doctor _put_ for Texas! planting himself in
the pleasant town of Bexar, and cursing duns from the bottom of his
heart--he determined to keep clear of them, even if he had to bury
himself away out here in Texas. But what was his horror to find, the
first week of his hanging up in Bexar, that an agent of the firm of
Peabody, Grab, Catchem & Co., _was there!_ The Doctor _stepped_ to
Galveston; on the way he accidentally _met_ a travelling agent of
Peabody, Grab, Catchem & Co. The Doctor took the _Sabine_ slide for
Tampico; there he found the "black vomit." He up and off again, for
Mobile; his nervous system was much worked up and his pocket-book sadly
depleted! There were two alternatives--change his name, size and
profession, and live in a swamp; _or settle with the firm of Peabody,
Grab, Catchem & Co_. Dr. Pendleton St. Clair Smith chose the latter; he
sought and soon found in Mobile, a veritable _agent_, duly authorized to
receive and forward funds for Peabody, Grab, Catchem & Co., and hunt up
and down--fugitives from the printer! The Doctor paid up--felt better,
and learned the moral fact that delinquent subscribers are no longer to
be the printers' ghosts.




Ambition.


A person never thinks so meanly of ambition as when walking through a
grave-yard.--To see men who have filled the world with their glory for
half a century or more, reduced to a six foot mudhole, gives pride a
shock which requires a long stay in a city to counteract.--The gentlemen
who are now "spoken of for the Presidency," will in less than a century,
have their bones carted away to make room for a street sewer. Queer
creature that man--well, he is.




Way the Women Fixed the Tale-Bearer.


"I dunno where I heer'd it, but I know it's true. I expected it long
ago. I told Jones it'd come out so."

"Why, Uncle Josh, you don't pretend to say that Miller's wife has run
off with Bob Tape, Yardstick's clark, do you?"

"Yes, I do, too; hain't it been the talk of the neighborhood for a year
past, that Miller's wife and that feller--Bob Tape, were a leetle too
thick?"

"Well, Uncle Josh," says his neighbor Brown, "I don't recollect anybody
saying anything about it, but you, and for my part, I don't believe a
word of it."

"Why, hain't Miller's wife gone?" says Uncle Josh.

"I don't know--is she?" says Brown.

"Be sure she is; I went over to the store this morning, the fust thing,
to see if Bob Tape was about--he wasn't there--they said he'd gone to
Boston on business for old Yardstick. O, ho! says I, and then I started
for Heeltap's shop; we had allers said how things would turn out. He was
out, but seein' me go to his shop, he came a runnin', and says he:

"'Uncle Josh, theer gone, sure enough!--I've been over to old Mammy
Gabbles, and she sent her Suke over to Miller's, on purtence of
borrowin' some lard, but told Suke to look around and see ef Miller's
wife wur about; by Nebbyknezer, Miller's wife wur gone! Marm Gabbles
couldn't rest, so she sent back Suke, and told her to ax the children
whare their marm wus; Miller hearing Suke, ordered her to scoot, so Suke
left without hearing the facts in the case, as 'Squire Black says.'

"But Heeltap swears, and I know Miller's wife and Bob Tape have
_sloped_, as they say in the papers."

"Well," says Brown, "I'm sorry if it's true--I don't believe a word of
it tho', and as it's none of my business, I shall have nothing to say
about it."

Uncle Josh was one of those inordinate pests which almost every village,
town and hamlet in the country is more or less accursed with. He was a
great, tall, bony, sharp-nosed, grinning _genius_, who, being in
possession of a small farm, with plenty of boys and girls to work it,
did not do anything but eat, sleep and lounge around; a gatherer of
_scan, mag_., a news and scandal-monger, a great guesser, and a stronger
suspicioner, of everybody's motives and intentions, and, of course,
never imputed a good motive or movement to anybody.

You've seen those wretches, male and female, haven't you, reader? Such
people are great nuisances--half the discomforts of life are bred by
them; they contaminate and poison the air they breathe, with their
noisome breath, like the odor of the Upas tree.

Uncle Josh had annoyed many--he was the dread and disgust of
seven-eighths of the town he lived in. He had caused more quarrels,
smutted more characters, and created more ill-feeling between friends,
neighbors and acquaintances, than all else beside in the community of
Frogtown. Uncle Josh was voted a great bore by the men, and a sneaking,
meddling old granny by the women. So, at last, the young women of the
town did agree, that the very next time Uncle Josh carried, concocted,
or circulated any slanderous or otherwise mischievous stories, _they
would duck him in the mill-race_.

Now, Brown--old Mister Brown--was the very antipode of Uncle Josh; he
was for always taking matters and things by the smoothest handle. Mister
Brown never told tales, backbited or slandered anybody; everybody had a
good word to say about Mister Brown, and Mister Brown had a good word to
say about everybody. The gals thought it prudent to give old Mister
Brown an inkling of their plans in regard to the disposition they
intended to make of Uncle Josh; the old man laughed, and told them to go
ahead, and to duck old Josh, and perhaps they would reform him.

"Now, gals," says old Mister Brown, "Uncle Josh has just this very day
been at his dirty work; by this time he has spread the news all over the
town, that Miller's wife has gone off with Yardstick's clark. I don't
believe a word of his tale, and if Miller's wife ain't really gone off,
Uncle Josh ought to be soused in the mill-race."

Next morning Miller's wife came home; she had been down to her sister's,
a few miles off, to see a sick child; her husband had been away at a
law-suit, in a neighboring town, and so Miller nor his wife knew nothing
of the report of her elopement with Bob Tape, until their return.

Miller was in a rage, but couldn't find out the author of the report.
Miller's wife was deeply mortified that such a suspicion should arise of
her; she had been making Bob Tape some new clothes to go to Boston in,
and here was the gist of Bob and Miller's wife's intimacy! There was a
great time about it--Miller swore like a trooper, and his wife nearly
cried her eyes out.

A few evenings afterwards, it being cool, clear weather in October,
Polly Higgins and Sally Smith called in to see Miller's wife, and asked
her to join them in a little party that some of the neighboring women
had got up that evening, for a particular purpose. Miller's wife not
having much to do that evening, her husband said she might go out a
spell if she chose, and she went, and soon learned the purport of the
call--old Uncle Josh was to be ducked in the mill-race! and Miller's
wife, disguised as the rest, was to help do it. When she heard that old
Josh had circulated the report of her elopement, Miller's wife did not
require much coaxing to join the watering committee.

It was so planned that all the women, some ten or twelve in number, were
to put on men's clothes and lay in wait for Uncle Josh at his lane gate,
about a quarter of a mile from the mill-race. Old Josh always hung
around the tavern, Heeltap's shoe-shop, or the grocery, until 9 P. M.,
before he started for home, and the girls determined to rush out of a
small thicket that stood close by old Josh's lane gate, and throwing a
large, stout sheet over him, wind him up, and then seizing him head,
neck and heels, hurry him off to the mill-race, and duck him well.

Mind you, your country gals and women are not paint and powder,
corset-laced and fragile creatures, like your delicate, more ornamental
than useful young ladies of the city; no, no, the gals of Frogtown were
real flesh and blood; Venuses and Dianas of solidity and substance; and
it would have taken several better men than Uncle Josh to have got away
from them. It was a cool, moon-shiny night, but to better favor the
women, just as old Josh got near his gate, a large, black cloud obscured
the moon, and all was as dark as a stack of black cats in a coal cellar.
Miller's wife acted as captain; dressed in Bob Tape's old clothes he had
left at her house to be repaired, she gave the word, and out they
rushed.

"Seize him, boys!" said she, in a very loud whisper. Over went the
sheet, down came old Josh, co-blim! Before he could say "lor' a massy,"
he was dragged to the mill-race, tied hand and foot, blindfolded, his
coat taken off, and he was _ca-soused_ into the cold water! Fury! how
the old fellow begged for his life!

"O, lor' a massy, don't drown me boys! I--a, I--" _ca-souse_ he went
again.

"Give him another duck," says one--and in he'd go again.

"Now, we'll learn you to carry tales," says another.

"And tell lies on me and Miller's wife," says Bob Tape--ca-souse he
went.

"O, lor' a mas--mas--e, do--do--don't drown me, Bob; I'll--I'll promise
never to--" in they put him again; the water was as cold as ice.

"Will you promise never to take or carry a story again?"

"I d--d--d--_do_ promise, if--yo--yo--yo--you--don't--duc--" and in he
went again.

"Do you promise to mind your own business and let others alone, Uncle
Josh?"

"Ye--ye--yes, I d--_do_, I--I--I'll promise anything--bo--boys, only let
me go," says Uncle Josh.

"Well, boys," says Polly Higgins, rousing, jolly critter she was, too,
"I owe Uncle Josh one more dip: he lied about my gal, Polly Higgins,
and--"

"O, ho, Seth Jones, that's you, ain't it?--Well--we--well, I said
nothing about Polly; it was Heeltap said it, 'deed it was."

Then they let old Josh off, vowing they'd give Heeltap his gruel next
night, and the moment Josh got clear of his sousers, he cut for home.
Next day Heeltap cleared himself.--Uncle Josh soon found out that he had
been ducked by the women, and, for his own peace, moved to Iowa, and
Frogtown has been a happy place ever since.




Penalty of Kissing your own Wife.


Cato, when Censor of Rome, expelled from the Senate Manilius, whom the
general opinion had marked out for counsellor, because he had given his
wife a kiss in the day time, in the sight of his daughter. And this
reminds us of a local story told us by one of the "oldest inhabitants"
of the city, that occurred once upon a time in this harbor. Before the
Revolutionary war, one of the King's ships was stationed here, and
occasionally cruised down to the south'ard. It so chanced that after a
long absence the cruiser arrived in the harbor on Sunday, and as the
naval captain had left his wife in Boston, the moment she heard of his
arrival she hastened down to the water side in order to receive him. The
worthy old sea captain, on landing, embraced his lady with tenderness
and true affection. This, as there were many spectators by, gave great
offence to the puritanical landsmen, and was considered as an act of
indecency and a flagrant profanation of the Sabbath. The next day,
therefore, the captain was summoned before the magistrates and
selectmen, who, with many severe rebukes and pious exhortations, ordered
him to be publicly whipped!

The old captain stifled his indignation and resentment as much as
possible; and as the punishment, from the frequency of it, was not
attended with any degree of disgrace, he mixed as usual with the best of
company, and even with the selectmen he soon ceased to be else than
familiar as ever.

At length the vessel was ordered home, to England, and the captain,
therefore, with seeming concern to take leave of his worthy friends,
and that they might spend a more happy and convivial day together before
their final separation, invited the principal magistrates and selectmen
to dine with him the day of his departure, on board his ship. They
readily accepted the invitation, and nothing could be more glorious than
the entertainment that was given.

At length the solemn moment arrived that was to part them--the anchor
was apeak, the sails unfurled, and nothing was wanted but the signal to
get under way. The captain, after taking an affectionate and formal
leave of his worthy municipal friends, accompanied them upon deck where
the boatswain and crew were ready to receive them. He here thanked them
afresh for the civilities they had shown him, of which the captain
assured them he should bear a kind remembrance.

"One point of civility, only," he continued, "gentlemen, remains to be
adjusted between us, and as it is in my power to settle it, I shall be
most happy to do so. You infernal old rogues you, you whipped me for
evincing a due regard and love for my wife, and now, lest you perpetrate
the outrage again 'gainst all law and reason, I'll give you a lesson
that will last your lifetime. Boatswain, strip each of these rogues to
the waist, lash them fast and put on your cat-o'-nine tails forty
stripes each!"

The boatswain, mid the laugh and acclamation of the whole crew, went to
the work with a hearty good will, and after giving the magistrates and
selectmen a fine dressing all around, he cut them loose, put them in
their boat, and the ship set sail down the harbor and soon disappeared
in the dim dist cut ocean.




Mysteries and Miseries of Housekeeping.


People of experience tell awful stories about the miseries of boarding,
and boarding-houses, and it is very clearly palpable to us that keepers
of boarding-houses could a tale unfold of their own miseries, equal, if
not double that of the luckless creatures who board. That housekeeping
has its joys it would be vain to deny, but we need no ghost come from
the grave to inform us that the secrets of the kitchen are as numerous
and as harrowing, as all can attest that ever had occasion to keep house
or hire a "Betty."

When Mr. Peter Perriwinkle got married, he exclaimed against hotels, and
abominated boarding-houses; quitting both species of human habitations,
he "up" and rented a house, and to hear his glowing description of the
house--such a cosy little three-storied brick house, on a street too
broad for the neighbors opposite to see into his front parlors, and no
houses in the rear from which the prying eye of the curious and idle
could spy into back kitchen closets or dinner pots--in brief,
Perriwinkle went on with that strain of domestic eloquence, peculiar to
new beginners in the arts and mysteries of housekeeping, and after a
general detail of the quiet comfort and unalloyed happiness he and Mrs.
P. were bound to enjoy for the balance of their lives, we merely
observed--

"Ah, my dear sir, you've but the ephemeral bright side of your vision
yet. But no matter, dear Pete, as the man said of the sausages--hope for
the best, but be prepared for the worst."

"But, brother Jack, I've no reason to look for any thing but a good
time. Haven't I married one of the best women in the world? I'm too
experienced in life, my boy, to call any female women angels, doves, or
sugar plums, you know, but my wife is a real woman!"

"Yes, Pete, she is all that," said we.

"Well, ain't I square with the world? Enough laid up for a wet
day--don't care twopence ha'penny for politics, or soldier
fol-de-rols--who wins or who loses in such hums?"

"Granted, old fellow."

"I tell you I've a perfect little paradise of a house engaged, furnished
and provisioned for a twelvemonth."

"No doubt of all that."

"As to friends and acquaintances, I have plenty, and of the right
stripe, too; I'd swear to that without any reluctance."

"I hope, Peter, you have."

"Then what in faith do you imagine I have in embryo to upset or disturb
the even tenor of my way, old boy? Come, answer that."

"Does your domestic apparatus work well?"

"I haven't tried it yet."

"Are your appurtenances--your household appointments--from kitchen to
parlor, from coal cellar to top scuttle, all they are cracked up to be?"

"Well, you see, the fact is, I can't tell that, yet."

"Do your chimneys draw? Does your range or cooking stove do things up
brown? Have you got your Bettys?"

"I vow you've sort of got me this time, brother Jack; but I'll find out,
soon, and let you know."

"Do, if you please, Peter, and let us hear an account of how things are
working after the first quarter's experience."

Perriwinkle opened with a neat supper party. We attended, and every
thing looked cap-a-pie; new, tasteful and happy as any thing human
under God's providence and the art and judgment of man could promise. At
midnight the company dispersed, all wishing the Perriwinkles life, love,
and lots of the small fry.

Months passed, full three; we met our old and familiar friend, Peter
Perriwinkle, and as we had not seen him for some time, we met with
greetings most cordial.

"How is every thing, old boy--paradise regained?"

"Ah," said Peter, with an ominous shake of the head, "dear Jack,--we've
a great deal to learn in this world, and as our old friend Sam Veller
says, whether its worth while to pay so much to learn so little, at
cost--is a question."

"You begin to think so, eh?"

"Things don't work quite so smooth as I expected--I've moved!"

"What? Not so soon?"

"Yes, sir," said Perriwinkle; "that house was a nuisance!"

"A nuisance? Why, I thought you were in raptures with it?"

"Had water every wet spell, knee-deep in the cellar; full of rats, bugs,
and foul air."

"You don't say so?"

"Yes, I do," said Perriwinkle, mournfully. "Chimneys smoked, paper
peeled off the walls, Mrs. P. got the rheumatics, a turner worked all
night, next door, the fellow that had previously lived or stayed in the
house, ran off, leaving all his bills unpaid, and our door bell was
incessantly kept ringing by ugly and impudent duns, and the creditors of
the rascal, whom I did not know from a side of sole leather. I lived
there in purgatory!"

"Too bad," said we. "Well, you've moved, eh?"

"Moved--and such an infernal job as it was. You know the two vases I
received as a present from my brother, at Leghorn; I wouldn't have taken
$100 each, for them--"

"They are worth it; more too."

"The carman dropped one out of his hands, broke it into a half bushel of
flinders, and I hit the centre table upon which the other stood, with a
chair, and broke it into forty pieces. But, that wasn't any thing, sir.
My wife packed up the elegant set of china presented her by her sister,
in a large clothes basket, and set it out in the hall, and while our
Irish girl and the carman were carrying out a heavy trunk, the girl lost
her balance and fell bump into the basket. She weighed over two hundred
pounds--every article of the china was crushed into powder!"

"This was too bad," said we, condolingly.

"Our carpets were torn in getting them up, for I had them put down fast
and tight, never supposing they'd come up until thread-bare and out of
fashion; they were stained and daubed. The veneering of the piano and
other furniture is scratched and torn; a hundred small matters are
mutilated. Franklin thought a few moves was as bad as a fire; one move
convinces me that the old man was right. But, my dear fellow, I won't
bore you with my miseries. We are now moved, and look comfortable again.
Call and see us, do. Good bye."

About a fortnight after meeting Perriwinkle, one evening we went up town
to see him and his lady. Mrs. P., before marriage, was an uncommon
even-tempered and most amiable woman. She had now been married about six
months. Upon entering the parlor we found Mrs. P. laboring under much
"excitement," and poor Peter--he was doing his best to pacify and soothe
her--

"Halloo! what's the trouble?"--we were familiar enough to ask the
question--as they were alone, without intruding.

"Take a seat, John," said Perriwinkle. "Mrs. P. and the cook have had a
misunderstanding. A little muss, that's all."

"Mr. Humphries," responded the irritated wife, "you don't know how one's
temper and good nature are put out, sir, by housekeeping; by the
impudence, awkwardness, and wasteful habits of servants, sir."

"Oh! yes, we do, Mrs. P.; we've had our experience," we replied.

"Well, sir," she continued, "I have suffered so in ordering, directing,
and watching these women and girls--had my feelings so outraged by them,
time and again, since we began housekeeping, that I vow I am out of all
manner of patience and charity for them. We have had occasion to change
our help so often, that I finally concluded to submit to the awkwardness
that cost us sets of china, dozens of glasses, stained carpets, soiled
paints, smeared walls, rugs upon the top of the piano, and the piano
cloths put down for rugs; Mr. P.'s best linen used for mops, and
puddings boiled in night-caps. But, sir, when this evening I found the
dough-tray filled with the chambermaid's old clothes, she wiping the
lamps with our linen napkins, and the cook washing out her stockings in
the dinner pot--I gave way to my angry passions, and cried with
vexation!"

And she really did cry, for female blood of Mrs. P.'s pilgrim stock,
couldn't stand that, nohow.

P. S.--Perriwinkle and lady sold off, and took rooms at the Tremont
House, in order to preserve their morals and money.




Miseries of a Dandy.


That poverty is at times very unhandy--yea, humiliating, we can bear
witness; but that any persons should make their poverty an everlasting
subject of shame and annoyance to themselves, is the most contemptible
nonsense we know of. During our junior days, while officiating as "shop
boy," behind a counter in a southern city, we used to derive some fun
from the man[oe]uvres of a dandy-jack of a fellow in the same
establishment. He was of the bullet-headed, pimpled and stubby-haired
_genus_, but dressed up to the _nines_; and had as much pride as two
half-Spanish counts or a peacock in a barnyard.

Charley was mostly engaged in the ware rooms, laboratory, etc., up
stairs. He would arrive about 7 A. M., arrayed in the costume of _the
latest style_, as he flaunted down Chestnut Street--by the way, it was a
long, idle tramp, out of his road to do so,--his hair all frizzled up,
hat shining and bright as a May morn, his dickey so stiff he could
hardly expectorate over his _goatee_, while his "stunnin'" scarf and
dashing pin stuck out to the admiration of Charley's extensive eyes, and
the astonishment of half the clerks and all the shop boys along the line
of our Beau Brummell's promenade!

It was very natural to conceive that Charley was impressed with the
idea, that he was the envy of half the men, and the _beau_ ideal of all
the women he met! But your real dandy is no particular lover of women;
he very naturally so loves himself that he lavishes all his fond
affection upon his own person. So it was with our _beau_--he wouldn't
have risked dirtying his hands, soiling his "patent leathers," or
disarranging his scarf the thirteenth of an inch, to save a lady from a
mad bull, or being run down by a wheelbarrow! Charley, to be sure, would
walk with them, talk with them, beau them to the theatre, concert or
ball room, provided always--they were dressed all but to within half an
inch of their lives! The man who introduced a new and _stunnin_' hat,
scarf, or coat, Charley would swear friendship to, on sight! A shabby,
genteel person was his abomination; a patch or darn, utterly horrifying!
He lived, moved, breathed--ideally, his ideality based, of course, upon
ridiculous superfluities of life--leather and prunella, entirely.
Charley looked upon "a dirty day" as upon a villanously-dressed person,
while a bright, shining morn--giving him amplitude to make a "grand
dash," won from him the same encomiums to the producer that he would
bestow on the getter-up of an elegant pair of cassimeres--commendable
works of an artist! The _genus_ dandy, whether of savage or civilized
life, is a felicitous subject for peculiar, speculative, comparative
analogy or _analysis_; we shall pursue the shadow no farther, but come
to the substance.

After arriving at the establishment, Charley would strip off his "top
hamper," placing his finery in a closet with the care and diligence of a
maiden of thirty, and upwards. Then, donning a rude pair of over-alls
and coat, he condescended to go to work. Now, in the said establishment,
our _beau_ had few friends; the men, girls, and boys were "down" upon
him; the men, because of his dandyism; the females hated him, because
Charley stuck his long nose _up_ at "shop girls," and wouldn't no more
notice them in the streets, than if they were chimney sweepers or
decayed esculents! We boys didn't like him no how, generally, though it
was policy for him to treat us tolerably decent, because his pride made
it imperiously necessary that some of the "little breeches" should do
small chores, errands, bringing water from the street, carrying down to
_the shop_ goods, etc., which might otherwise devolve upon himself. But
men, girls and boys were always scheming and practising jokes and tricks
upon the _beau_. The boys would all rush off to dinner--first having so
dirtied the water, hid the towels and soap, that poor Charley would
necessarily be obliged to go down into the public street and bring up a
bucket of the clean element to wash his begrimed face and hands. And
mark the difficulties and _diplomacy_ of such an arrangement. Charley
would slip down into the lower entry, peep out to see if any body was
looking,--if a genteel person was visible, the _beau_ held back with his
bucket; after various reconnaissances, the coast would appear clear, and
the _beau_ would dash out to the pump, agitate "the iron-tailed cow"
with the force and speed of an infantile earthquake--snatch up the
bucket, and with one _dart_ hit the doorway, and glide up stairs,
thanking his stars that nobody "seen him do it!"

In one of these _forays_ for water, the _beau_ was decidedly cornered by
two of the "shop girls." They, sly creatures, observed poor Charley from
an upper "landing" of the stairway, in the entry below, watching his
chance to get a clear coast to fill his dirty bucket. The moment the
beau darted out, down rush the girls--slam to the door and bar it!

The _beau_, dreaming of no such diabolical inventions, gives the pump an
awful _surge_, fills the bucket, looks down the street, and--O! murder,
there come two ladies--the first _cuts_ of the city, to whom Charley had
once the honor of a personal introduction! With his face turned over his
shoulder at the _ladies_--his nether limbs desperately nerved for _tall
walking_,--he dashes at the supposed open entryway, and--nearly knocked
the panel out of the door, smashing the bucket, spilling the water, and
slightly killing himself!

It was almost "a cruel joke," in the girls, who, taking advantage of
the stunning effect of the operation, unbarred the door and vanished,
before poor Charley picked himself up and scrambled into the lower store
to recuperate.

Weeks ran on; the beau had enjoyed a respite from the wiles of his
persecutors, when one morning he was forced to come down into the store
in his working gear, well be-spattered with oleaginous substances, dust
and dirt; in this gear, Charley presented about as ugly and primitive a
looking Christian, as might not often--before California life was
dreamed of--be seen in a city. We _did_ quite an extensive retail
trade--the store was rarely free from _ton_-ish citizens, mostly "fine
ladies," in quest of fine perfumes, soaps, oils, etc., to sweeten and
decorate their own beautiful selves. But, before venturing in, our
_beau_ had an eye about the horizon, to see that no impediments offered;
things looked safe, and in comes the beau.

We were upon very fair terms with Charley, and he was wont to regale us
with many of his long stories about the company he _faced_ into, the
"conquests" he made, and the times he had with this and that, in high
life. Fanny Kemble was about that time--belle of the season! _Lioness_
of the day! setting corduroy in a high fever, and raising an awful
_furore_--generally! Alas! how soon such things--cave in!

Charley got behind the counter to stow away some articles he had brought
down, and began one of his usual harangues:

"Theatre, last night, Jack?"

"No; couldn't get off; wanted to," said we.

"O, you missed a grand opportunity to see the fashion beauty and wealthy
people of this city! Such a house! Crowded from pit to dome, met a
hundred and fifty of my friends--ladies of the first families in town,
with all the 'high boys' of my acquaintance!"

"And how did Fanny _do_ Juliet?" we asked.

"Do it? Elegant! I sat in the second stage box with the two Misses W.
(Chestnut street belles!) and Colonel S. and Sam. G., and his sister
(all _nobs_ of course!), and they were truly entranced with Miss
Kemble's Juliet! I threw for Miss G. her elegant bouquet,--Fanny kissed
her fingers to me, and with a _look_ at me, as I stood up so--(the beau
gave a tall _rear up_ and was about to spread himself, when glancing at
the door, he sees--two ladies! right in the store!) _thunder!_" he
exclaims.

If the beau had been hit by a streak of lightning, he would not have
_dropped_ sooner than he did, behind the counter.

The ladies proved to be _nobody_ else than those of the very two Misses
W. themselves; they lived close by, and frequently came to the store.
Beneath our counter were endless packages, broken glass, refuse oils,
rancid perfumes, dust, dirt, grease, charcoal, soap, and about
everything else dingy and offensive to the eye and nose. The place
afforded a wretched refuge for a hull so big and nice as our beau's, but
there he was, much in our _way_ too, with the mournful fact, for
Charley, that if those "fine ladies" stayed less than half an hour,
without overhauling about every article in the store, it would be a
white stone indeed in the fortunes of the beau! The ladies sat; they
dickered and examined--we exhibited and put away, the beau lying
crouched and crucifying at our feet, and we sniggering fit to burst at
the _contretemps_ of the poor victim. Charley stood it with the most
heroic resignation for full twenty minutes, when the two Misses W. got
up to go. Casting their eyes towards the door, who should be about to
pass but the divine Fanny!

Fanny Kemble! Seeing the two Misses W., whose recognition and
acquaintance was worth cultivating--even by the haughty queen of the
drama and belle of the hour; she rushed in, they all had a talk--and you
know how women can talk, will _talk_ for an hour or two, all about
nothing in particular, except to _talk_. Imagine our beau,--"Phancy his
phelinks," as _Yellow Plush_ says, and to heighten the effect, in comes
the boss! He comes behind the counter--he sees poor Charley
sprawling--he roars out:

"By Jupiter! Mr. Whackstack, are you sick? _dead_?"

"Dead?" utters Fanny.

"A man dead behind your counter, sir?" scream the Misses W.!

With one desperate _splurge_, up jumps the beau; rushes out, up
stairs--gets on his clothes, and we did not see him again for over two
years!




A Juvenile Joe Miller.


We observed a small transaction last Wednesday noon, on Hanover street,
that wasn't so coarse for an urchin hardly out of his swaddling clouts.
He was a cunning-looking little fellow, and poking his head into a shoe
shop, he bawls out in a very keen, fine, silvery voice--

"S-a-a-y, Mister-r-r--"

"Eh?--what?" says the shop-keeper.

"Somebody's got your boots out here!"

Supposing, of course, that somebody was pegging away with a bunch of his
_wares_ at the door, Lapstone rushes out and cries--

"Where?"

"There," says the shaver; "they're there--somebody's got 'em--hung up
'long your window there."

Lapstone seized a box lid to give the juvenile joker a flip, but he
scooted, grinning and ha! ha!-ing in the most provoking strain.




"Selling" a Landlord.


During the great gathering of people in Quakerdom, while the Whigs were
dovetailing in Old Zack, an artful dodger, a queer quizzing Boston
friend of mine, thought a little _side play_ wouldn't be out of the way,
so to work he goes to get up a muss, and I'll tell you how he managed
it, nice as wax.

Among the Boston delegates--self-constituted, _a la_ Gen. Commander--was
a certain gentleman, remarkable for his probity, decorum, and extreme
sensitiveness. Well, A., the _wag_, and B., the _victim_, landed
together, but selected, in the general overflow and hurly-burly,
different lodgings. Next morning, A. finds B. stowed away in ----'s
Hotel, fine as a fiddle, snug as a bug, in a good room, and doing about
_as_ well as could be expected. A. had had indifferent luck, and the
quarters he had lit upon were any thing but comfortable, the inmates of
the Hotel being stowed away in _tiers_, like herrings in a box. A.
thought he'd _oust_ his innocent and unsuspecting friend, and crack his
joke, if it cost a law suit, just for the sake of variety.

With the _address_, and _partly the_ dress--a white hat--of a man of the
_mace_, A. steps up to the bar of ----'s Hotel, and after carefully
scrutinizing the register, finds the autograph of the victim, then
smiles suspiciously, enough to say to the observant bar-keeper--

"Aha! I've found him!" Then leaning cautiously forward towards that
person, says A.--

"Is this man here yet? Is he in the house?"

"I b'leave he is, sur,--I know he is, sur," says the Milesian,
overlooking the register himself.

"Come here last night?" continues A., in his suspicious strain.

"He did, sur!" answers the grog-mixer.

"Has nothing but a valise and umbrella?" says A.

"Nothing else, sur, I believe," is the reply.

"That's him! that's him! I've found him!" exultantly exclaims A., while
the bar-keeper and landlord, who had now come forward, eagerly wanted to
know if any thing was wrong with the gentleman whose arrival was being
discussed.

"Step aside, sir," says A. to the proprietor; "I don't want any
disturbance made, at such a time; it might do your fine establishment
more harm than good; _but_, there is a person stopping in your house
that I have followed from Boston; I have kept my eye on his
movements(!); I know his designs, his practices, _well_; I'm on his
track--he dodged me last night, but I've found him--"

"Well, do you pretend to assert that this man (scrutinizing the
register) is a pick-pocket, a thief, or something of the kind, sir?"
earnestly inquired the proprietor.

"You keep _mum_, sir," said A., coolly tapping the lappel of the
landlord's coat--"I've got him _safe!_ Let him rest for awhile--I've got
him! Do you understand?" says the wag, winking a knowing, significant
_wink_ at the landlord.

"No, cuss me if I do understand you, sir!" sharply replies the landlord.
"If there is a dangerous or disreputable person in my house, sir, I
would thank you to tell me, sir, and I will soon put him where the dogs
won't bite him, sir!"

"There is no use of unnecessary alarm, my friend," says A., in a low
tone; "the truth is, this person whom I have followed here, has made a
heavy _draw_ on one of our Boston banks, by means of certain checks and
certificates, and--"

"Oho! That's it, eh?" interposes the landlord, beginning to see his
guest in a more _dignified_ light, that of a splendid thief; so his
rigid frown, called in play by the supposition that a petty rascal was
on his premises, subsided into a wise smile, which A. interrupts with--

"You've hit it; but keep quiet! Don't let us go too _far_ before we're
sure the bird is in our cage. He's worth attending to; I'm not sure he's
_got_ the abstracted money about him; but when he settles with you, just
notice the size of his wallet, and its contents; may have an officer
handy, if you like. If he has a large roll of notes, especially on the
Traders' Bank, nab him, and keep him until I come," said A.

"Where do you stop, sir?" inquired the landlord.

"At the ----, Chestnut street," A. replies.

"Shall be attended to, sir, I warrant you. Is there a reward out, sir,
for this person?" says the landlord.

"O! no; it has all been kept quiet. _Policy_, you see; he left in such a
hurry, he thought he'd be lost sight of in this crowd here in your city.
If he has the money, we'll make 'a spec,' you understand?"

"I see, I see," said the befogged landlord; "I'll keep a sharp look out
for him, and let you know the moment I find him fairly out."

That afternoon, as B. called for his bill at the bar of ----'s Hotel,
the landlord was _about_, all in a _twitter_, with two policemen in the
distance, and sundry especial friends hanging about, to whom the
landlord had unbosomed the affair. All were anxiously watching the
result of the business. B. hands forth his capacious wallet, stuffed
with "_documents_" of the Traders' Bank, of Boston,--from which
institution he had _drawn_ a pile of funds, to invest in coal at
Richmond,--and no sooner did B. place an X, of the Traders' Bank, upon
the bar, than the excited landlord's eyes danced like shot on a hot
shovel, and giving the constables the _cue_, poor B. found himself
_waited upon_, in a brace of shakes, by those two custodians, while the
landlord grabbed the wallet out of B.'s hand, with a suddenness that
completely mesmerized him.

"Gentlemen," says the landlord to the officers, "do your duty!"

"Why, look here!" says B., squirming about in the grasp of the officers,
and reaching over for the landlord and his wallet--"what the thunder are
you about? Come, I say, none of your darn'd nonsense now; let me go, I
tell you, and hand back that wallet, Mister ----."

But B. was "a goner." They favored him with no explanation, of course,
and were about trotting him forth to the Mayor's office, when a well
known Anthracite merchant came in, in quest of B. Some inquiry followed,
explanation ensued, and the result was, that after poor B. got a little
reconciled to the _joke_, he joined issue with a laughing chorus at the
expense of the _sold_ landlord, who, in consideration of all hands
keeping _mum_, put the party through a course of juleps.

I may as well observe, that I regret there is no particular _moral_ to
this sketch.




Scientific Labor.


"Bob, what yer doing now?"

"Aiding Nat'ral History."

"Aiding Nat'ral History--what do yer mean by that?"

"Why every time the kangaroo jumps over the monkey, I hold his tail
up."




Who was that Poor Woman?


I do not know a feminine--from the piney woods of Maine to the
Neuces--so given to popularity, newspaper philippics, and city item
bombards, as Aunt Nabby Folsom, of the town of Boston. The name and
doings of Aunt Nabby are linked with nearly all popular cabals in
Faneuil Hall, the "Temple," "Chapel," or Melodeon--from funeral orations
to political caucusses--Temperance jubilees to Abolition flare ups; for
Aunt Nabby never allows _wind_, weather or subject, time, place or
occasion, to prevent her "full attendance." The police, and over-zealous
auditors, at times _snake her down_ or crowd her old straw bonnet, but
Aunt Nabby is always sure of the polite attention of the "Reporters,"
and shines in their notes, big as the biggest toad in the puddle.

Indeed, Aunt Nabby is one of 'em!--a perfect she-male Mike Walsh. She
will have her _say_, though a legion of constables stood at the door;
her principal _stand-point_ is the freedom of speech and woman's rights,
and she goes in tooth and nail _agin law_, Marshal Tukey, and the entire
race-root and rind of the Quincys--particularly strong! Aunt Nabby is
subject to a series, too tedious to mention, of "sells" by the _quid
nuncs_ and rapscallions of the day, and one of these "sells" is the pith
of my present paper.

It so fell out, when Jenny Lind arrived here, about every fool within
five-and-fifty miles ran their heels and brazen faces after the
Nightingale and her carriage wherever she went, from her bed-chamber to
her dinner table, from her drawing-room to the Concert Hall. It took
Barnum and his whole "private secretary" force and equal number of
policemen and servants, besides Stephens himself, of the Revere, and his
bar-keeper, to keep the mob from rushing pell-mell up stairs and
surrounding Jenny as Paddy did the Hessians.

Now and then a desperate fellow got in--had an audience, grinned, backed
down and went his way, tickled as a dog with two tails. Others were
victimized by notes from Barnum (!) or Miss Lind's "private secretary,"
offering an interview, and many of these transactions were "rich and
racy" enough, in all conscience, for the pages of a modern Joe Miller.
But Aunt Nabby Folsom's time was about as rich as the raciest, and will
bear rehearsing--easy.

"Good morning, sir," said a pleasing-looking, neatly-dressed, elderly
lady, to the two scant yards of starch and dickey behind Stephens' slab
of marble at the Revere.

"Good morning, ma'am," responded the _clark_, who, not knowing exactly
who the lady was, _jerked_ down his well-oiled and brushed "wig and
whiskers" to the entire satisfaction of the matronly lady, who went on
to say--

"I wish to see Miss Lind, sir."

"Guess she's engaged, ma'am."

"Well, but I've an invitation, sir, from Miss Lind, to call at 9 A. M.
to-day. I like to be punctual, sir; my time is quite precious; I called
precisely as desired; Miss Lind appointed the time; and----"

"Oh, very well, very well, ma'am," said the _clark_, with a flourish,
"if Miss Lind has invited you----"

"Why, of course she has! Here's her--"

"O, never mind, ma'am; all correct, I presume."

The "pipes" and bells soon had the attendance of a gang of
white-jacketed, polish-faced Paddies, and the elderly lady was
marshalled, double-file, towards the apartments of the Nightingale.

Jenny had but just "turned out," and was "feeding" on the right wing and
left breast of a lark, the leg of a canary, "a dozen fried" humming
bird eggs--her customary fodder of a morning.

The servants passed the countersigns, and the elderly lady was
admitted--the Nightingale, without disturbing the ample folds of her
camel's hair dressing-gown--a present from the Sultan of all the
Turkies, cost $3,000--motioned the matron to squat, and as soon as she
got her throat in talking order, said--

"Goot mornins."

"How do you do?" responds the old lady.

"Pooty well, tank'ees. You have some breakest? No!"

"No, ma'am. I've had my breakfast three hours ago."

"Yes? indeed! you rise up early, eh?--Well, it is goot for ze hels, eh?"

"So my doctor says," responded the matron. "But I like to get up and be
stirring around."

"Ah! yes; you stir around, eh? What you stir around?"

"Well, Miss Lind, I'll tell you what I stir around. I-stir-the-monsters
(Miss Lind looks sharp)
who-try-to-trample-on-the-universal-rights-_of-woman!_ (The matron 'up'
and gesticulating like the brakes of an engine--Miss Lind drops her
eating tools--eyes of the two servants bulge out!) A-n-d
I-stir-the-demagogues-who-assemble-in-Faneuil-Hall (down with the
brakes!), to prevent-the-freedom-of-speech (rush upon the brakes!),
a-a-n-d-put-me-down!"

It was evident that the appetite of the Nightingale was getting
spoiled--she looked suspicious, and, just in time to prevent the female
orator--who was no other personage, of course, than Aunt Nabby Folsom,
from ripping into a regular caucus fanfaronade of gamboge and gas, a
knock upon the door announced a "call" for Miss Lind, to dress and
appear to a fresh lot of bores--yclept the Mayor and his suit of
Deacons, soup, pork and bean-venders.

"Ah! yes; I will be ready in one min't. Madame, you will please come
again; once more, adieu--good mornins--adieu!"

And Aunt Nabby, in spite of her ancient teeth, found herself bowed--half
way down stairs--into the hall, and clean out doors, before she caught
her breath to say another word upon the interminable subject of the
freedom of speech and woman's rights!

But Aunt Nabby "blowed"--O! didn't she _blow_ to the various tea and
toast coteries, scandal and slang express women--and the various knots
of anxious crowds who stood about Bowdoin Square during the Lind mania!
Aunt Nabby had had a genuine _tete-a-tete_ with the Nightingale--and,
ecod, an invitation to call again! But Jenny Lind, and her cordon of
sentinels, secretaries and suckers, were "fly" for the old screech owl,
when again and again she beset the _clark_ and the stairways of the
Revere. Though Aunt Nabby hung on and growled dreadfully, she finally
caved in and kept away.

When Jenny Lind gave the proceeds of one concert to charitable purposes,
among the items set down in the list was--"A poor woman--_one hundred
dollars!_"

"Why, it's you, of course," said a _quid-nunc_, to Aunt Abby, as she
held the Evening Transcript in her hands, in the store of Redding & Co.,
and observed the interesting item above alluded to.

"Well, so I think," says Aunt Nabby. "If I ain't a poor woman, and a
var-tuous woman, and a good and _true woman_ (down came her brakes on
the book piles), I'd like to know where--_where_, on this univarsal
_yearth_ (down with the brakes), you'd find one! One hundred dollars to
a poor woman," she continued, reading the item. "I must be the
person--yes, Abigail, _thou art the man!_" she concluded in her favorite
apothegm.

The _quid_ gave Abby the residence of the Agent (!) who was to disburse
the Lind charities, and away went Abby to the Agent, who happened to be
an amateur joker; knowing Aunt Abby, and smelling a "sell," he told the
old 'un that Mr. Somerby, of No. -- Cornhill, the joker of the Post, was
the Agent, and would shell out next morning, at nine o'clock. At that
hour, S. had Aunt Nabby in his sanctum. He knew the ropes, so assured
Abby that there was a mistake; Charles Davenport, of Cornhill, rear of
Joy's building, was the man. Charles D. informed Aunt Nabby, that he had
declined to disburse for Miss Lind, but that Bro. Norris, of the Yankee
Blade, had the pile, and was serving it out to an excited mob. Norris
declared that she was in error. She was not, by a jug full, the only,
poor woman in town, and didn't begin to be _the_ poor woman set forth in
Miss Lind's schedule! But Aunt Nabby wasn't to be _done!_ She besieged
Miss Lind--followed her to the cars--mounted the platform--Jenny espied
her, and to avoid a harangue on the freedom of speech and woman's
rights, hid her head in her cloak. The last exclamation the Nightingale
heard from the screech owl, was--

"Miss Jane Lind--who was that poor wom-a-n?"




Infirmities of Nature.


Some folks are easily glorified. We once knew a man who became so elated
because he was elected first sergeant in the militia, that he went home
and put a silver plate on his door. Ollapod, in speaking of this kind of
people, makes mention of one Sabin, who was so overjoyed the first time
he saw his name in the list of letters, advertised by the post-office,
that he called his friends together and put them through on woodcock.




Andrew Jackson and his Mother.


It is a most singular, or at least curious fact, connected with the
histories of most all eminent men, that they were denied--by the decrees
of stern poverty, or an all-wise Providence--those facilities and
indulgences supposed to be so essentially necessary for the future
success and prosperous career of young men, but acted as "whetstones" to
sharpen and develop their true temper! The fact is very vivid in the
early history of Andrew Jackson--a name that, like that of the great,
godlike Washington, must survive the wreck of matter, the crush of
worlds, and, passing down the vista of each successive age, brighter and
more glorious, unto those generations yet to come, when time shall have
obliterated the asperities of partisan feeling, and learned to deal most
gently with the human frailties of the illustrious dead.

Andrew Jackson, senior, emigrated from Ireland in 1765, with his wife
and two boys--Hugh and Robert, both very young; they landed at
Charleston, S. C, where Jackson found employment as a laborer, and
continued to work thus for several years, until, possessed of a few
dollars, he went to the interior of the state and bought a small place
near Waxhaw. About this time, 1767, Andrew Jackson, Jr., was born, and
during the next year--by the time the infant could lisp the name of his
parent--the father fell sick of fever and died. Mrs. Jackson, left with
three small children, in an almost wild country, where nothing but toil
of a severe and arduous kind could provide a subsistence, was indeed in
a most grievous situation. But she appears to have been a woman of no
ordinary temperament, courage, and perseverance, for she continued
cheerfully the work left her--rearing her boys, and preparing them for
the situations in life they might be destined to fill. Mrs. Jackson was
a woman of some information, and a strong advocate for the rights and
liberties of men; as, it is said, she not only gave her boys their first
rudiments of an English education, but often indulged in glowing
lectures to them of the importance of instilling in their hearts and
principles an unrelenting war against pomp, power, and circumstance of
monarchical governments and institutions! She led them to know that they
were born free and equal with the best of earth, and that that position
was to be their heritage--maintained even at the peril of life and
property! and how well he learned these chivalric lessons, the
countrymen of Andrew Jackson need not now be told, as it was exemplified
in every page of his whole history.

Hugh, Robert, and Andrew, were now the widow's hope and treasures; Hugh
and Robert were her main dependence in working their little farm, and
Andrew, never a very robust person, was early sent to the best schools
in the neighborhood, and much care taken by his mother to have him at
least educated for a profession--the ministry. This resolve was more
perhaps decided upon from the naturally stern, contemplative, and fixed
principles of young Jackson; as at the early age of fifteen, he was by
nature well prepared for the scenes being enacted around him, and in
which, even those young as himself, were called upon to take an active
part. This was in the days of the revolution, when the weak in numbers
of this continent were about to try the _experiment_ of living free and
independent, and establish the fact that royalty was an imposition and a
humbug, only maintained by arrogance and pomp at the point of the
bayonet.

The British had begun the war--already had the echoes of "Bunker Hill,"
and the smell of "villainous saltpetre," invaded and aroused the quiet
dwellers in the woods and wilds of South Carolina, and the chivalric
spirit that has ever characterized the men of the Palmetto state, at
once responded to the tocsin of _liberty_. It was with no slight degree
of sorrow and aching of the mother's heart, that she saw her two sons,
Hugh and Robert, shoulder their muskets and join the Spartan band that
assembled at Waxhaw Court-house. But she blessed her children and gave
up her holy claim of a mother's love, for the common cause of the infant
nation.

Cornwallis and his army crossed the Yadkin, Lord Rawden, with a large
force, took the town of Camden, and began a desolation of the adjacent
country. Being apprised of a "rebel force" in arms at Waxhaw, he
immediately dispatched a company of dragoons, with a company of
infantry, to capture or disperse the "rebels." About forty men,
including the two boys Jackson, were attacked by these veterans of the
British army, but aided by their true courage, a good cause, and perfect
knowledge of the country, they gave the invaders a hot reception, and
many of the enemy were killed; and not until having made the most
determinate resistance, and being overwhelmed by the great majority of
the opposing forces, did these patriots retreat, leaving many of their
friends dead upon their soil, and eleven of their number prisoners in
the hands of the British. It was during this fight that Andrew
Jackson--a mere lad--hearing the noise of the conflict, while he sat in
the log-house of his mother, besought her to allow him to take his
father's gun, and fly to join his brothers. And it was vain that the
parent restrained him, knowing the temperament of the boy, from this
dangerous determination; for with one warm embrace and parting kiss upon
the brow of his mother, Andrew Jackson buckled on his powder-horn and
bullet-pouch, and rushed to the scene of battle. But his friends were
already flying, and hotly pursued by the enemy. Andrew met his brother
Robert, who informed him of the death of their elder brother, Hugh; the
two boys now fled together and concealed themselves in the woods, where
they lay until hunger drove them forth--they sought food at a farm
house, the owner of which proved to be a _tory_, and gave information to
some soldiers in the vicinity--the Jacksons were both captured and led
to prison. In the affray--for they yielded only by force--Robert was cut
on the head by a sword in the hands of a petty officer, and he died in
great agony in prison. It was here and then that the firm and manly
bearing of the boy was exhibited; for he stood his griefs and
imprisonment like a true hero. Not a tear escaped him by which his
enemies might be led to believe he feared their power, or wavered in his
allegiance to the cause of his country.

"Here, _boy_, clean my boots!" said an officer to him. But the bright
defiant eye of the boy smote the captor with a look, and as he curled
his firm lips in scorn, he answered,

"No, sir, I will _not!_"

"You won't? I'll tie you, you young saucy rebel, to your post, and skin
your back with a horse whip, if you do not clean my boots."

"Do it," said the lion-hearted boy--"for I'll not stoop to clean the
boots of your master!"

The infuriated ruffian drew his sword, and to defend his head from the
blow, Andrew threw up his little hand and received a gash--the scar of
which went with him to the tomb at the Hermitage. A Captain Walker, of
South Carolina, with a dozen or twenty men, during the imprisonment of
Andrew Jackson, made a desperate charge upon a company of the British,
near Camden, and captured thirteen of them; these prisoners he exchanged
for seven of his countrymen, including the boy Andrew Jackson, prisoners
of the enemy. Andrew hurried home--his poor old mother was upon her
death bed, attended by an old <DW64> nurse of the Jackson family, and
suffering not only from the great multitude of grief consequent upon the
death of her heroic sons, but for want of the common necessaries of
life, the invaders having stripped the widow of her last pound of
provisions. The life-spark rekindled in the eye of the mother, as she
beheld her darling boy safe at her bedside--she grasped his hand with
the firmness of a dying woman, and turning her eyes upon the now weeping
boy, said,

"Andrew, I leave you,--son, you will soon be alone in the world; be
faithful, be true to God and your country--that--when--the--hour of
death approaches you--will have--nothing to--dread--every thing--to hope
for."

       *       *       *       *       *

Andrew was taken ill after the burial of his mother, and but for the
constant and tender care of the old black nurse--the last of the Jackson
family--would have then passed away; he recovered--he was alone--not a
relative in the world; poor, and in a land ravaged by a foreign foe,
could a boy be more desolate and lonely? With a few "effects" thrown
upon his shoulders, he went to North Carolina, Salisbury, where he
entered the office of a famed lawyer--Spruce M'Cay--was admitted to the
bar in 1778--went to Tennessee--served as a soldier in the Indian wars
of 1783--chosen a Senator 1797--Major General in 1801--whipped the
British in the most conclusive manner at New Orleans in 1815, and
triumphantly elected President of the United States for eight years in
1829. Andrew Jackson followed his mother's advice, and he not only
triumphed over his hard fortune, but died a Christian, full of hope, in
1845.




Snaking out Sturgeons.


We have roared until our ribs fairly ached, at the relation of the
following "item" on sturgeons, by a loquacious friend of ours:--

It appears our friend was located on the Kennebec river, a few years
ago, and had a number of hands employed about a dam, and the sturgeons
were very numerous and extremely docile. They would frequently come
poking their noses close up to the men standing in the water, and one of
the men bethought him how delicious a morsel of pickled sturgeon was,
and he forthwith made a preparation to "snake out" a clever-sized fish.
Getting an iron rod at the blacksmith's shop, close at hand, he bends up
one end like a fish hook, and, slipping out into the stream, he slily
places the hook under the sturgeon's nose and into its round hole of a
mouth, expecting to fasten on to the victimized, harmless fish, and
"yank" him clean and clear out of his watery element. But, "lordy,"
wasn't he mistaken and surprised! The moment the hook touched the inside
of the sturgeon's mouth, the creature backed water so sudden and
forcibly as to near jerk the holder of the hook's head from its socket.
The poor fellow was forty rods under water, and going down stream,
before he mustered presence of mind enough to induce him to let go the
hook!

However, the lookers-on of this curious man[oe]uvre took a boat and
fished out their half-drowned comrade, who concluded that he had paid
pretty dearly for his whistle.

The sturgeon-catching did not end here. After the laugh of the
above-mentioned adventure had ceased, some one offered to bet a hat that
he could hold a sturgeon and snake him clean out of the water; and as
the man who _had_ tried the experiment felt altogether dubious about it,
he at once bet that the sturgeon would be more than a match for any man
in the crowd.

The wager was duly staked, a rod crooked, the operator tucked up his
sleeves and trowsers, and wades out to where a sturgeon or two were
lying off in the shallow water. Of course the operation now became a
matter of considerable interest; and as the man was a stout, hearty
fellow, able to hold a bull by the horns, few entertained doubts of his
bringing out _his_ sturgeon.

After a long time the operator gets his hook under the sturgeon, and
leans forward to stick it close into the jaws of the victim; and no
sooner was that part of the feat accomplished, than Mr. Sturgeon "backs
out" with the velocity of chain lightning, carrying his assailant under
water and down stream! The man held on; and there they went, foaming and
pitching, until the fellow, finding his breath nearly out of his body;
his neck, arms, and legs just about dislocated, concluded to lose the
hat and let the hook and sturgeon go!

Pretty well used up, the poor fellow succeeded in getting out of the
river, a convert to the first experimental idea of the strength and
velocity of fish, especially a big sturgeon.

Beginning to imagine that fish could swim, or had some muscular power,
several of the bystanders were rife for experimenting on the sturgeons.

Another iron rod was converted into a hook, and two burly-built Paddys
volunteered to hook the fish. An opportunity was not long waited for,
ere a jolly good elastic nosed genus sturgeon came smelling up close to
where the Paddys had posted themselves upon some moss-covered, slippery
stones, and with a sudden spasmodic effort, the man with the hook
planted it firmly into the suction hole of the fish, while his companion
held on to a rope fast to the hook. Before Pat could say Jack Robinson,
of course he was jerked off his feet, and, letting go the iron, the
other Paddy and the sturgeon set sail, having all the fun to themselves!
This proved, or very nearly so, a serious _denouement_ to the
sturgeon-catching by hand, for Paddy was carried clean and clear off
soundings, and so repeatedly immersed in deep water, that his life was
within an ace of being wet out of his body. The rope parted at last
(poor Pat never thought of letting go his "hould"), and being dipped out
of the liquid element and rolled over a barrel until his insides were
emptied of the water, and heat restored through the influence of
whiskey, he recovered, and further experimenting on sturgeons, that
season, in the Kennebec, ceased.




Mixing Meanings--Mangling English.


There is an individual in Quincy Market, "doing business," who is down
on customers who don't speak proper.

"What's eggs, this morning?" says a customer.

"_Eggs_, of course," says the dealer.

"I mean--how do they _go_?"

"Go?--where?"

"Sho--!" says the customer, getting up his _fury_, "what for eggs?"

"Money, money, sir! or good endorsed credit!" says the dealer.

"Don't you understand the English language, sir?" says the customer.

"Not as you mix it and mangle it; I don't!" responded the egg merchant.

"What--is--the--price--per--dozen--for--your--eggs?"

"Ah! now you talk," says the dealer. "Sixteen cents per dozen, is the
price, sir!" They traded!




Waking up the Wrong Passenger.


In "comparing notes" with a travelled friend, I glean from his stock of
information, gathered South-west, a few incidents in the life of a
somewhat extensively famed Boston panoramic artist--one of which
incidents, at least, is worth rehearsing. Some years ago, the South-west
was beset by an organized coalition of desperadoes, whose daring
outrages kept travellers and the dwellers in the Mississippi valley in
continual fear and anxiety. "Running <DW65>s" was one of the most
popular and profitable branches of the business pursuits of these
gentlemen freebooters, and, next to horse-stealing, was the most
practised.

At length, the citizens "measured swords" with the freebooters, or land
pirates, more properly; forming themselves into committees, the citizens
opened _Court_ and practised Judge Lynch's _code_ upon a multitude of
just occasions. At the time of which we write, Mill's Point, on the
Mississippi, was no great shakes of a _town_, but a spot where a very
considerable amount of whiskey was drank, and a corresponding quantity
of crime and desperate doings were enacted; indeed, some of the worst
scenes in Southern Kentucky's tragic dramas were performed there. It so
fell out, that some of the land pirates had been actively engaged in
levying upon the <DW64>s and mules around Mill's Point, and the
protective committee were on the alert to capture and administer the law
upon these fellows. It was discovered, one evening, as the shades of a
black and rather tempestuous night were closing upon the mighty "father
of waters" and his ancient banks, that a mysterious _voyageur_, or sort
of piratical _vidette_, was seen in his light canoe, hugging the shore,
either for shelter or some insidious purpose.

The canoe and its navigator were diligently watched; but the coming
storm and darkness soon closed observation, and the parties noticing the
transaction hurried forward to the _Point_, and announced one or more of
the land pirates in the neighborhood! Of course, the town--of some four
houses, six "groceries," a _store_ and blacksmithery--was aroused,
indignant! Impatient for a victim, the _posse comitatus_ "fired up,"
armed to the teeth with pistol, bludgeon, blunderbuss, gun, bowie-knife,
and--whiskey, started up the river to reconnoitre and intercept the
pirate and his crew.

Each nook and corner along shore, for some three miles, was
carefully--as much so as the darkness would admit--scoured. The
Storm-King rode by, the stars again twinkled in the azure-arched
heavens, and soon, too, the bright silver moon beamed forth, and
suddenly one of the vigilant committee espies the land-pirate and his
canoe noiselessly floating down the rapid stream! No time was to be
lost; the committee man, rather pleased with the fact of his being the
first to make the discovery, apprised a comrade, and the two hurried
back to the Point, to get a canoe and start out to capture the enemy.
The canoe was obtained, three courageous men, armed to the teeth, as the
saying goes, paddled off, and indeed they had not far to paddle, for
right ahead they saw the mysterious canoe of the enemy! Where was the
pirate? Asleep! Lying down in his frail vessel; either asleep, or
"playing possum." At all events, the Mills-Pointers gave the enemy but a
brief period to sleep or act; for, dashing alongside, a brawny arm
seized the victim in the strange canoe by the breast and throat, with
such a rush and fierceness that both canoes were upon the apex of
"swamping."

"Don't move! Don't budge an inch, or you're a case for eels, you thief!"

"Make catfish bait of him at once!" yelled the second.

"Don't move," cried the third, "don't move, you possum, or you're
giblets, instanter!"

But these injunctions scarcely seemed necessary, for, even had the
captive been so inclined, he neither possessed the power nor opportunity
to move a limb.

"Haul him out," cried one.

"Yes, lug him into our boat," said another; "so now, you skunk, lay
still; don't open your trap, or I'll brain you on sight!"

Having transferred the body of the captive from his "own canoe" to
theirs, the Mills-Pointers made fast the stranger's _dug-out_, and then
paddled for the landing. The pirate was duly hauled ashore, or on to the
_wharf-boat_, and left under guard of one of the captors--a dreadful
ugly-looking customer, a _cross_ between a whiskey-cask, bowie-knife,
and a Seminole Indian or bull-dog, and armed equal to an arsenal--while
the other two went up to the nearest "grocery," reported the capture,
took a drink, and sent out word for _Court_ to meet. The poor victim was
deposited on his back across some barrels, with his hands tied behind
him. Recovering his scattered senses, the _pirate_ "waked up."

"Look here, my virtuous friend," said he to his body-guard, who sat on
an opposite barrel, with a heavy pistol in his hand, "what's all this
about?"

"Shet up!" responded the guard; "shet up your gourd. You'll know what's
up, pooty soon, you ugly cuss, you!"

"Well, that's explicit, anyhow!" coolly continued the captive. "But all
I want to know, is--am I to be robbed, killed off, or only initiated
into the mysteries of your craft?"

"Shet up, you piratin' cuss, you; shet up, or I'll give you a settler!"
was the reply.

[Illustration: "Shet up, you piratin' cuss you; shet up or I'll give you
a settler!--_Page_ 305.]

"Well, really, you are accommodating," cavalierly replied the but little
daunted captive. "One thing consoling I glean, my virtuous friend, from
your scraps of information--you are not a pirate yourself, or in favor
of that science! But I should like to know, old fellow, where I am, and
what the deuce I'm here for."

"Well, you'll soon diskiver the perticklers, for here comes the _Court_,
and they'll have you dancin' on nothin' and kickin' at the wind, pooty
soon; you kin stake your pile on that!"

And with this, a hum was heard, and soon a mob of a dozen
well-_stimulated_ citizens, and strangers about the Point, came rushing
and yelling on to the wharf-boat and were quite as immediately gathered
around the captive. The first impulse of the _posse comitatus_ appeared
to manifest itself in a desire to hang the victim--straight up! A second
(how _sober_ we know not) thought induced them to ask a question or two,
and for this purpose the presiding _judge_ drew up before the still
prostrate captive, and said--

"Who are you? What have you got to say for yourself, anyhow?"

The sunburnt, ragged, and rather romantic-looking prisoner turned his
face towards the _judge_, and replied--

"I have nothing of consequence to say, neighbor. I would like to know,
however, what all this means!"

"Where's your crew, you villain?" said the _judge_.

"Crew? I have never found it necessary to have any, neighbor; navigation
never engrossed a great deal of my attention, but I get along down here
very well--without a crew!"

"You do?" responded the _judge_; "well, we're going to hang you up."

"You are, eh?" was the cool reply; "well, I have always been opposed to
capital punishment, neighbor, and I know it would be unpleasant to me
now!"

The quiet manner of his reply rather won upon the _Court_, and says the
_judge_--

"Who are you, and where are you from?"

"My name is Banvard--John Banvard, from Boston!"

"It is, eh? What are you doing along here, alone in a canoe?"

"_Taking a panorama of the Mississippi, neighbor, that's all._"

The _Court_ adjourned _sine die_; the clever artist was untied, treated
to the best the market afforded, that night; his canoe, rifle, &c.,
restored next day, and John went on his way rejoicing in his narrow
escape--finished his sketches, and the first great panorama "got up" in
our country, and which he took to Europe, after making a fortune by it
in America.




Genius for Business.


It's a highly prized faculty in shop-keeping to sell something when a
customer comes in, if you can. A female relative of ours went into a
Hanover street fancy store 'tother day, to "look over" some ivory card
and needle cases; the slightly agricultural-looking clerk "flew around,"
and when the question "Have you any ivory card cases?" was propounded,
he responded--

"Not any, mum;" glancing into the show-case, his visual orbs _lit_ upon
a profusion of well-known matters in domestic economy, for the
abrogation of certain parasitic insects.

"Haven't any card cases, mum,--_got some elegant ivory small-tooth
combs!_"




Have You Got Any Old Boots?


No slight portion of the ills that flesh is heir to, in a city life, is
the culinary item of rent day. Washing day has had its day--machines and
_fluid_ have made washing a matter of science and ease, and we are no
longer bearded by fuming and uncouth women in the sulks and suds, as of
yore, on the day set apart for renovating soiled dimities and dickeys.
Another and more important matter, from the extent of its obnoxiousness
to our nerves and temper, has come home to our very threshold and
hearths, to disturb the even tenor of our domestic quietude and peace.

"_Have you got any ole boots?_"

Boston lost a good citizen by those bell-pulling, gate-whacking,
back-door-pounding infernal collectors of time and care-worn _boots_.
The old boot gatherers were almost as diverting as novel to me, when I
first located in Boston; but I have long since learned to hate and abhor
them, and their co-laborers in the tin-pan, tape, tea-pot, willow work,
and white pine ware trade, with a most religious enthusiasm.

"_Have you got any ole boots?_"

How often--a hundred times at least, have I gone to the door and heard
this inquiry--ten times in one day, for I kept count of it, and used
enough "strong language" at each shutting--banging to of the door, to
last a "first officer" through a gale of wind.

"_Have you got any ole boots?_"

The idea of jumping up from your beef steak and coffee, or morning
paper--just as you had got into a deeply interesting bit of information
on "breadstuff's," California, or the Queen's last baby, to open your
door, and espy a grim-visaged and begrimed son of the Emerald Isle,
just rearing his phiz above the pyramid of ancient and defiled leather,
and meekly asking--

"_Have yez got any ole boots?_"

These _collectors_ are of course prepared for any amount of explosive
_gas_ you may shower down upon their uncombed crowns, as the cool and
perfectly-at-home manner they descend your steps to mount those of your
next-door neighbor plainly indicates. The "pedlers" and--

"_Have you got any ole boots?_"

Drove my respected--middle-aged friend Mansfield--clear out of town! Mr.
Mansfield was a _retired_ flour merchant; he was not rich, but well to
do in the world. He had no children of his own, in lieu of which,
however, he had become responsible for the "bringing up" of two orphans
of a friend. One of these children was a boy, old enough to be
_devilish_ and mightily inclined that way. The boy's name was Philip,
the foster father he called Uncle Henry, and not long after arriving in
town, and opening house at the South End, Mr. Mansfield--who was given
to quiet musings, book and newspaper reading--found that he was likely
to become a victim to the aforesaid hawkers, pedlers and old boot
collectors.

Uncle Henry stood it for a few months, with the firmness of an
experienced philosopher, laying the flattering unction to his soul that,
however harrowing--

"_Got any ole boots to-day?_"

might be to him, for the present, he could grin and bear and finally get
used to it, as other people did. But Uncle Henry possessed an irritable
and excitable temperament, that not one man in ten thousand could boast
of, and hence he grew--at length sour, then savage, and, finally, quite
meat-axish, towards every outsider who dared to ring his bell, and
proffer wooden ware and tin fixins, for rags and rubbers, or make the
never-to-be-forgotten inquiry--

"_Have you got any ole boots to-day?_"

Always at home, seated in his front parlor, and his frugal wife not
permitting the expense of a servant, Uncle Henry, or Master Philip, were
obliged to wait on the door. The old gentleman finally concluded that
the pedlers and old boot collectors, more as a matter of daily amusement
than profit or concern--gave him a call. And laboring under this
impression, Uncle Henry determined to give the nuisances, as he called
them, a reception commensurate with their impertinence and his worked up
ire.

"Now, Philly," said Uncle Henry, one morning after breakfast, "we'll fix
these--

"'_Got any ole boots?_'

"We'll give the rascals a caution, they won't neglect soon, I'll warrant
them. Bring me the hammer and nails; that's a man; now get uncle the
high chair; so, that's it; now I'll fix this shelf up over the top of
the door, on a pivot--bore this hole through here--put the string
through that way, here, umph; oh, now we'll have a trap for the
scoundrels. I'll learn them how to come pulling people's bells, clean
out by the very roots, making us drop all, to come wait on them, rot
them--

"'_Got any ole boots?_'

"I'll give you old boots, by the lord Harry; I'll give you a dose of
something you won't forget, to your dying day."

And thus jabbering, fixing and pushing about the revolving shelf, over
his hall door, Mr. Mansfield worked away at his trap. Like that of most
dwellings in Boston, Uncle Henry's front door was _sunk_ some six or
eight feet into the face of the house, reached by a flight of six
granite steps--side and top lights to the door, in the ordinary way,
with brass plate and bell pull. It was in a neighborhood not _plebeian_
enough to induce butcher boys to enter the hall, with the pork and
potatoes, nor admit of the servant girl heaving "slops" out of the
front windows; yet not sufficiently parvenu to impress pedlers and

"_Got any ole boots?_"

with aristocratic or "respectable" _awe_, ere venturing to mount the
steps, pull the bell, and mention tin pots, scrap iron, rags and old
leather. Mr. Mansfield was inclined to _chuckle_ in his sleeves at the
_ruse_ he would be enabled to give his tormentors through the agency of
his revolving battery--charged with ground charcoal and brick dust, to
be worked by himself or Philly, by means of a string on the inside.
Philly was duly initiated into the _modus operandi_; when--

"_Got any ole boots?_"

made his appearance, amid his pyramid of leather, or a pedler's wagon
was seen in the neighborhood, Philly was to be on the _qui vive_, inform
Uncle Henry, and if they mounted the steps, he would give them a shower
bath upon a new and astonishing principle.

It was perfect "nuts" for Master Phil; he was tickled at the idea, and
readily agreed to Uncle Henry's propositions. Not long after arranging
the "infernal machine," Uncle Henry's attention was called to another
part of the house; a dire calamity had befallen the Canary bird; a
strange cat had pounced upon the cage--the door flew open, and puss
nabbed the little warbler. Philly, on the look out, in front, discovers
two old boot men approaching the neighborhood; desirous of showing his
own skill, he did not call Uncle Henry, but posted himself behind the
door--string in hand, awaiting the _cue_. Feet approach--quickly the
feet mount the steps.

"_Ding al ling, ding de ding, ding, ding, ding!_"

"_Sh-i-i-s-swashe!_" and down comes the avalanche of coal dust and
refined brick, the bulk of a peck, fair measurement!

Uncle Henry reached the door just in time to see the penny postman
covered from head to foot with the obnoxious composition! Philly took
occasion to make a sudden exit, the postman swore--swore like a trooper,
but Uncle Henry managed to pack the whole transaction upon the "devilish
boy"--brushed the postman's clothes, and after some effort, so mollified
him as to induce the sufferer to depart in peace. Uncle Henry _tried_ to
be very severe on Philly, but it was very evident to that hopeful that
the old gentleman was more tickled than serious. Philly cleared the
steps, and the old gentleman re-arranged the trap, admonishing Philly
not to dare to meddle with it again, but call him when--

"_Got any ole boots?_" made their appearance.

All was quiet up to noon next day; Uncle Henry had business down town,
and left the house at 9 A. M. Philly was at school, but got home before
Uncle Henry, and seeing the pedler wagon near the door--slipped in, and
learning that the old gentleman was out, he gladly took charge of the
battery again. Now, just as the pedler mounted the steps of the next
door, Mr. Mansfield sees him, and hurries up his own steps, to be on the
watch for the pedler. Philly had been peeking out the corner of the side
curtain, and seeing the pedler coming, as he thought, right up the
steps--nabbed the string, and as Uncle Henry caught the knob of the
door--down came thundering the brick dust and charcoal both, in the most
elegant profusion.

Phil was _tricked_. Uncle Henry's vociferations were equal to that of a
drunken beggar--the trap was removed, Uncle Henry got disgusted with
city life, and left--for rural retirement, without as much as giving one
single rebuke to--

"_Got any ole boots to-day?_"




The Vagaries of Nature.


Nature seems to have her fitful, frightful, and funny moods, as well as
all her children. Now she gets up a stone bridge, the gigantic
proportions and the symmetrical development of which attract great
attention from all tourists and historians who venture into or speak of
"old Virginia." The old dame goes down far into the bowels of Mother
Earth, in Kentucky, and builds herself, silently and alone, a stupendous
under-ground palace, that laughs to scorn the puny efforts of man in
that branch of business. She gets up sugar-loaf mountains, pillars of
salt, great granite breastworks, and stone towers; hews out
figure-heads, old men's noses on the beetling cliffs of New Hampshire,
and throws up rocky palisades along the Hudson, that win wonder and
delight from the floating million. Instances out of all number might be
raked up, home and abroad, to show how the old dame has cut _didoes_ in
the prosecution of her manifold duties. But in Australia, it would seem,
nature has taken most especial pains to appear slightly ridiculous or
very eccentric.

Old Captain Rocksalt informs us--and there is always wit, wisdom, and
truth in the old man's stories--that he made voyages to Australia many
times within the past thirty years, and having visited about all the
sea-ports of the Continent, lived and almost died in Australia, his
notes are worthy of attention. Capt. Cook discovered and named _Botany
Bay_, the name originating from the fact that the land was covered with
a luxurious growth of Botanical specimens. The Dutch discovered and
named _Van Diemen's Land_. The English at once concluded to make Botany
Bay a penal colony, and the first living freight of criminals and
soldiers sent out, was some 700 in number, in 1788; but Capt. Phillip,
the commander of the fleet, being dissatisfied with the looks of Botany
Bay, hunted up a better place, and sailed to it. When Capt. Cook was
cruising off there, one of his sailors, on the look out, cried, "Land
ho!"

Cook was over his wine and beef, in the cabin, and it took him some time
to "tumble up" on deck.

"Where the deuce is your land, eh?" bawls the old cruiser.

"Larboard beam, sir!" responds the "lookout;" and, sure enough, a long,
faint streak of land was visible from deck. The "lookout" announced a
harbor, head-lands, &c.; but the rum old captain, not being able to see
any such indication, with a chuckle, says he--

"You booby! harbor, eh? Ha, ha! well, we'll call it a port, you powder
monkey--_Port Jackson!_"

And faith, so the lookout, Jackson, became sponsor to the finest harbor
in all Australia; for Capt. Phillip, upon rediscovering the harbor, took
his fleet into it, and then and there began the now flourishing city of
Sydney.

Australia is an Island, lying opposite another--New Zealand. It is on
the Indian Ocean, south side, while the east opens to the Pacific.
Australia claims to contain a superficial area of over three million
square miles, part desert, rather mountainous, and all being in one of
the finest climates on the face of the earth. The air is dry, the soil
light and sandy; the high winds stir up the dust and fine sand, and make
ophthalmy the only positive ill peculiar to the country. Sheep-grazing,
wool-growing, and boiling down sheep and cattle for tallow was the great
business of the country from its earliest settlement up to 1851, when
the _gold fever_ swept the land.

Australia was inhabited by over 100,000 natives, black cannibals of the
ugliest description; but at this day not a hundred of them remain. The
natives were exceeding stupid and useless; the first settlers, who, as
Capt. Rocksalt observes, were jail-birds and scape-gallows, were not
very dainty in dealing with the obnoxious natives; so they determined to
get rid of them as fast and easy as possible. For this purpose, they
used to gather a horde of them together, and give them poisoned bread
and rum, and so kill them off by hundreds. It was a sharp sort of
_practice_, but the _ends_ seemed to justify the _means_.

Gold, "laying around loose," as it did, was, no doubt, _discovered_
years ago; but not in quantities to lead the ignorant to believe money
could be made hunting it. People may be stupid; but it requires a far
greener capacity than most of them would confess to--at least, ten years
ago--to make them believe gold could be picked up in chunks out in the
open fields.

But Australia began to be populated; by convicts first; and then by far
better people; though the very worst felons sent out often became decent
and respectable men, which is indeed a great "puff," we think, for the
healthfulness of the climate. A convict shepherd now and then used to
bring into Sydney small lumps of gold and sell them to the watch-makers,
and as he refused to say where or how he got them, it was suspicioned
that he had secreted guineas or jewelry somewhere, and occasionally
melted them for sale.

However, one day the thing broke out, nearly simultaneously, all over
Australia. Gold was lying around everywhere. The rocks, ledges, bars,
gullies, and river-banks, which were daily familiar to the eyes of
thousands, all of a sudden turned up bright and shining gold. Old Dame
Nature must have laughed in her sleeve to see the fun and uproar--the
scrabble and rush she had caused in her vast household.

"It did beat _all!_" exclaims the old Captain. "In forty-eight hours
Sydney was half-depopulated, Port Phillip nearly desolate, while the
interior villages or towns--Bathurst, &c., were run clean out!"

Stores were shut up, the clerks running to the mines, and the
proprietors after the clerks. Mechanics dropped work and put out;
servants left without winking, leaving people to wait on themselves;
doctors left what few patients they had, and bolted for the fields of
Ophir; lawyers packed up and cut stick, following their clients and
victims to the brighter fields of "causes" and effects. The newspapers
became so short-handed that dailies were knocked into weeklies, and the
weeklies into cocked hats, or something near it--mere eight-by-ten
"handbills."

These "discoveries" wrought as sudden as singular a revolution in men,
manners, and things. As we said before, Australia was the very apex of
singularities in the way of Dame Nature's fancy-work, long before the
gold mania broke out; but now she seemed bent on a general and
miscellaneous freak, making the staid, matter-of-fact Englishmen as full
of caprice as the land they were living in.

"Only look at it!" exclaims the Captain: "the day comes in the middle of
our nights! When we're turning in at home, they are turning out in
Australia. Summer begins in the middle of winter; and for snow storms
they get rain, thunder and lightning. About the time we are getting used
to our woollens and hot fires of the holidays, they are roasting with
heat, and going around in linen jackets and wilted dickeys. The land is
full of flowers of every hue, gay and beautiful, gorgeous and sublime to
look at, but as senseless to the smell and as inodorous as so many dried
chips. The swans are numerous, but jet black. The few animals in the
country are all provided with pockets in their 'overcoats,' or skin, in
which to stow their young ones, or provender. Some of the rivers really
appear," says the Captain, "to run up stream! I was completely taken
down," says the Captain, "by a bunch of the finest pears you ever saw.
Myself and a friend were up the country, and I sees a fine pear tree,
breaking down with as elegant-looking fruit as I ever saw.

"'Well, by ginger,' says I, 'them are about as fine pears as I've seen
these twenty years!'

"'Yes,' says my friend, who was a resident in the country; 'perhaps you
would like to try a few?'

"'That I shall,' says I; so I ups and knocks down a few, and it was a
job to get them down, I tell you; and when I had one between my teeth I
gave it a nip--see there, two teeth broke off," says the Captain,
showing us the fact; "the fine pears _were mere wood!_

"The country is well supplied with fine birds; but they are dumb as
beetles, sir--never heard a bird sing or whistle a note in Australia.
The trees make no shade, the leaves hang from the stems edge up, and
look just as if they had been whipped into shreds by a gale of wind; and
you rarely see a tree with a bit of bark on it.

"But what completely upset me, was the cherries, sir--fine cherries,
plenty of them, but the _stones were all on the outside!_ The bees have
no stings, the snakes no fangs, and the eagles are all white. The north
wind is hot, the south wind cold. Our longest days are in summer; but in
Australia, sir, the shortest days come in summer, and the longest in
winter; and," says the Captain, "I can't begin to tell you how many
curious didoes nature seems to cut, in that country; but, altogether,
it's one of the queerest countries I ever did see, by ginger!"

And we have come to the conclusion--it is. If the gold continues to
"turn up" in such boulders and "nuggets" as recently reported, Australia
is bound to be the richest and most densely populated, as well as
_queerest_ country known to man.




A General Disquisition on "Hinges."


Did you ever see a real, true, unadulterated specimen of _Down East_,
enter a store, or other place of every-day business, for the purpose of
"looking around," or _dicker_ a little? They are "<DW53>s," they are, upon
all such occasions. We noted one of these "critters" in the store of a
friend of ours, on Blackstone Street, recently. He was a full bloom
_Yankee_--it stuck out all over him. He sauntered into the store, as
unconcerned, quietly, and familiarly, as though in no great hurry about
anything in particular, and killing time, for his own amusement.
Absalom, Abijah, Ananias, Jedediah, or Jeremiah, or whatever else his
name may have been, wore a very large fur cap, upon a very small and
close-cut head; his features were mightily pinched up; there was a
cunning expression about the corner of his eyes, not unlike the
embodiment of--"catch a weazel asleep!" while the smallness of his
mouth, thinness and blue cast of his chin and lips, bespoke a keen,
calculating, pinch a four-pence until it squeaked like a frightened
locomotive temperament! His "boughten" sack coat, fitting him all over,
similar to a wet shirt on a broom-handle, was pouched out at the pockets
with any quantity of numerous articles, in the way of books and boots,
pamphlets and perfumery, knick-knacks and gim-cracks, calico, candy, &c.
His vest was short, but that deficiency was made up in superfluity of
_dickey_, and a profusion of sorrel whiskers. Having got into the store,
he very leisurely walked around, viewing the hardware, separately and
minutely, until one of the clerks edged up to him:

"What can we do for you to-day, sir?"

Looking _quarteringly_ at the clerk for about two full minutes, says
he--

"I'd dunno, just yet, mister, what yeou kin do."

"Those are nice hinges, real wrought," says the clerk, referring to an
article the "customer" had just been gazing at with evident interest.

"Rale wrought?" he asked, after another lapse of two minutes.

"They are, yes, sir," answered the clerk. Then followed another pause;
the Yankee with both his hands sunk deep into his trowsers' pockets, and
viewing the hinges at a respectful distance, in profound calculation,
three minutes full.

"They be, eh?" he at length responded.

"Yes, sir, _warranted_," replied the clerk. Another long pause. The
Yankee approached the hinges, two steps--picks up a bundle of the
article, looks knowingly at them two minutes--

"Yeou don't say so?"

"No doubt about that, at all," the clerk replies, rather pertly, as he
moves off to wait upon another customer, who bought some eight or ten
dollars' worth of cutlery and tools, paid for them, and cleared out,
while our Yankee genius was still reconnoitering the hinges.

"I say, mister, where's them made?" inquires the Yankee.

"In England, sir," replied the clerk.

"Not in _Neuw_ England, I'll bet a fo'pence!"

"No, not here--in Europe."

"I knowed they warn't made areound here, by a darn'd sight!"

"We've plenty of American hinges, if you wish them," said the clerk.

"I've seen _hinges_ made in _aour_ place, better'n them."

"Perhaps you have. We have finer hinges," answered the clerk.

"I 'spect you have; I don't call _them_ anything great, no how!"

"Well, here's a better article; better hinges--"

"Well, them's pooty nice," said the Yankee, interrupting the clerk, "but
they're small hinges."

"We have all sizes of them, sir, from half an inch to four inches."

"You hev?" inquiringly observed the Yankee, as the clerk again left him
and the hinges, to wait on another customer, who bought a keg of nails,
&c., and left.

"I see you've got brass hinges, tew!" again continued the Yankee, after
musing to himself for twenty minutes, _full_.

"O, yes, plenty of them," obligingly answered the clerk.

"How's them brass 'uns work?"

"Very well, I guess; used for lighter purposes," said the clerk.

"Put 'em on desks, and cubber-doors, and so on?"

"Yes; they are used in a hundred ways."

"Hinges," says the Yankee, after a pause, "ain't considered, I guess, a
very neuw invenshun?"

"I should think not," half smilingly replied the clerk.

"D'yeou ever see wooden hinges, mister?"

"Never," candidly responded the clerk.

"Well, I _hev_," resolutely echoed the Yankee.

"You have, eh?"

"E' yes, plenty on 'em--eout in Illinoi; seen fellers eout there that
never seen an iron hinge or a razor in their lives!"

"I wasn't aware our western friends were so far behind the times as
that," said the clerk.

"It's a _fact_--dreadful, tew, to be eout in a place like that,"
continued the Yankee. "I kept school eout there, nigh on to a year;
couldn't stand it--"

"Ah, indeed!" mechanically echoed the poor clerk.

"No, _sir_; dreadful place, some parts of Illinoi; folks air almighty
green; couldn't tell how old they air, nuff on 'em; when they get mighty
old and bald-headed, they stop and die off, of their own accord."

"Illinois must be a healthy place?" observed the clerk.

"Healthy place! I guess not, mister; fever and ague sweetens 'em, I tell
you. O, it's dreadful, fever and ague is!"

"That caused you to leave, I suppose?" said the clerk.

"Well, e' yes, partly; the climate, morals, and the water, kind o' went
agin me. The big boys had a way o' fightin', cursin', and swearin',
pitchin' apple cores and corn at the master, that didn't exactly suit
me. Finally, one day, at last, the boys got so confeounded sassy, and I
got the fever and agy so _bad_, that they shook daown the school-house
chimney, and I shook my hair nearly all eout by the roots, with the
_agy_--so I packed up and _slid!_"

The clerk being again called away to wait on a fresh customer, the
Yankee was left to his meditations and survey. Having some twenty more
minutes to walk around the store, and examine the stock, he brought up
opposite the clerk, who was busy tying up gimlets, screws, and stuff,
for a carpenter's apprentice. Yankee explodes again.

"Got a big steore of goods layin' areound here, haven't yeou?"

"We have, sir, a fair assortment," said the clerk.

"Them Illinoi folks haven't no _idee_ what a place this Boston is; they
haven't. I tried to larn 'em a few things towards civilization, but
'twaren't no sort o' use tryin'!"

"New country yet; the Illinois folks will brighten up after a while, I
guess," said the clerk. "Did you wish to examine any other sort of
hinges, sir?" he continued.

"Hain't I seen all yeou hev?"

"O, no; here we have another variety of hinges, steel, copper, plated,
&c. These are fine for parlor doors, &c.," said the clerk.

"E' yes them air nice, I swow, mister; look like rale silver. I 'spect
them cost somethin'?"

"They come rather high," said the clerk, "but we've got them as low as
you can buy them in the market."

"I want to know!" quietly echoes the Yankee.

"Yes, sir; what do you wish to use them for?" says the clerk.

"Use 'em?" responded the Yankee.

"Yes; what _priced_ hinges did you require?"

"What priced hinges?--"

"Exactly! Tell me what you require them _for_, and I can soon come at
the _sort_ of hinges you require," said the clerk, making an effort to
come to a climax.

"Who said _I_ wanted any hinges?"

"Who said you wanted any? Why, don't you want to buy hinges?"

"Buy hinges? Why, _no;_ I don't want nothin'; _I only came in to look
areound!_"

Having looked around, the imperturbable Yankee stepped out, leaving the
poor clerk--quite flabbergasted!




Miseries of Bachelorhood.


Dabster says he would not mind living as a bachelor, but when he comes
to think that bachelors must die--that they have got to go down to the
grave "without any body to cry for them"--it gives him a chill that
frost-bites his philosophy. Dabster was seen on Tuesday evening, going
convoy to a milliner. Putting this fact to the other, and we think we
"smell something," as the fellow said when his shirt took fire.




The Science of "Diddling."


Jeremy Diddlers have existed from time immemorial down, as traces of
them are found in all ancient and modern history, from the Bible to
Shakspeare, from Shakspeare to the revelations of George Gordon Byron,
who strutted his brief hour, acted his part, and--vanished. Diddler is
derived from the word _diddle_, to _do_--every body who has not yet made
his debut to the Elephant. We believe the word has escaped the attention
of the ancient lexicographers, and even Worcester, and the still more
durable "Webster," have no note of the word, its derivation, or present
sense.

A "Jeremy Diddler" is, in _fact_, one of your first-class vagabonds; a
fellow who has been spoiled by indulgent parents, while they were in
easy circumstances. Trained up to despise labor, not capacitated by
nature or inclination to pass current in a profession, he finds himself
at twenty possessed of a genteel address, a respectable wardrobe, a few
friends, and--no visible means of support. There are but two ways about
it--take to the highway, or become a Diddler--a sponge--and, like
woodcock, live on "suction." The early part of a Diddler's life is
chiefly spent among the ladies;--they being strongly susceptible of
flattering attentions, especially those of "a nice young man," your
Diddler lives and flourishes among them like a fighting cock. Diddler's
"heyday" being over, he next becomes a politician--an old Hunker;
attends caucusses and conventions, dinners and inaugurations. Never
aspiring to matrimony among the ladies, he remains an "old bach;" never
hoping for office under government, he never gets any; and when, at
last, both youth and energies are wasted, Diddler dons a white
neckcloth, combs his few straggling hairs behind his ears, and, dressed
in a well-brushed but shocking seedy suit of sable, he jines church and
turns "old fogie," carries around the plate, does chores for the parson,
becomes generally useful to the whole congregation, and finally shuffles
off his mortal coil, and ends his eventful and useless life in the most
becoming manner.

Cities are the only fields subservient to the successful practice of a
respectable Diddler. New York affords them a very fair scope for
operation, but of all the American cities, New Orleans is the Diddler's
paradise! The mobile state of society, the fluctuations of men and
business, the impossibility of knowing any thing or any body there for
any considerable period, gives the Diddler ample scope for the exercise
of his peculiar abilities to great effect. He dines almost sumptuously
at the daily lunches set at the splendid drinking saloons and _cafes_,
he lives for a month at a time on the various upward-bound steamboats.
In New Orleans, the departure of a steamer for St. Louis, Cincinnati or
Pittsburg, is announced for such an hour "to-day"--positively; Diddler
knows it's "all a gag" to get passengers and baggage hurried on, and the
steamer keeps _going_ for two to five days before she's gone; so he
comes on board, registers one of his commonplace aliases, gets his
state-room and board among the crowd of _real_ passengers, up to the
hour of the boat's shoving out, then he--slips ashore, and points his
boots to another boat. Many's the Diddler who's passed a whole season
thus, dead-heading it on the steamers of the Crescent City. Sometimes
the Diddler learns bad habits in the South, from being a mere Diddler,
which is morally bad enough; he comes in contact with professional
gamblers, plunges into the most pernicious and abominable of
vices--gambles, cheats, swindles, and finally, as a grand tableau to his
utter damnation here and hereafter, opens a store or a bank with a
crowbar--or commits murder.




The Re-Union; Thanksgiving Story.

     "Behold, for peace I had great bitterness, but thou hast in love to
     my soul delivered it from the pit of corruption: for thou hast cast
     all my sins behind thy back."--Isaiah.


A portly elderly gentleman, with one hand in his breeches pocket, and
the fingers of the other drumming a disconsolate rub-a-dub upon the
window glass of an elegant mansion near Boston Common, is the personage
I wish to call your attention to, friend reader, for the space of a few
moments. The facts of my story are commonplace, and thereby the more
probable. The names of the dramatis personae I shall introduce, will be
the _only_ part of my subject imaginary. Therefore, the above-described
old gentleman, whom we found and left drumming his rub-a-dub upon the
window panes, we shall call Mr. Joel Newschool. To elucidate the matter
more clearly, I would beg leave to say, that Mr. Joel Newschool, though
now a wealthy and retired merchant, with all the "pomp and circumstance"
of fortune around him, could--if he chose--well recollect the day when
his little feet were shoeless, red and frost-bitten, as he plodded
through the wheat and rye stubble of a Massachusetts farmer, for whom he
acted in early life the trifling character of a "cow boy."

Yes, Joel could remember this if he chose; but to the vain heart of a
proud millionaire, such reflections seldom come to the surface. Like
hundreds of other instances in the history of our countrymen, by a
prolonged life of enterprise and good luck, Joel Newschool found
himself, at the age of four-and-sixty, a very wealthy, if not a happy
man. With his growing wealth, grew up around him a large family. Having
served an apprenticeship to farming, he allowed but a brief space to
elapse between his freedom suit and portion, and his wedding-day. Joel
and his young and fresh country spouse, with light hearts and lighter
purses, came to Boston, settled, and thus we find them old and wealthy.
In the heart and manners of Mrs. Newschool, fortune made but slight
alteration; but the accumulation of dollars and exalted privileges that
follow wealth, had wrought many changes in the heart and feelings of her
husband.

The wear of time, which is supposed to dim the eye, seemed to improve
the ocular views of Joel Newschool amazingly, for he had been enabled in
his late years to see that a vast difference of _caste_ existed between
those that tilled the soil, wielded the sledge hammer, or drove the
jack-plane, and those that were merely the idle spectators of such
operations. He no longer groped in the darkness of men who believed in
such fallacies as that wealth gave man no superiority over honest
poverty! In short, Mr. Newschool had kept pace with all the fine notions
and ostentatious feelings so peculiar to the mushroom aristocracy of the
nineteenth century. He gloried in his pride, and yet felt little or none
of that happiness that the bare-footed, merry cow boy enjoyed in the
stubble field. But such is man.

With all his comfortable appurtenances wealth could buy and station
claim, the retired merchant was not a happy man. Though his expensive
carriage and liveried driver were seen to roll him regularly to the
majestic church upon the Sabbath: though he was a patient listener to
the massive organ's spiritual strains and the surpliced minister's
devout incantations: though he defrauded no man, defamed not his
neighbor, was seeming virtuous and happy, there was at his heart a pang
that turned to lees the essence of his life.

Joel Newschool had seen his two sons and three daughters, men and women
around him; they all married and left his roof for their own. One, a
favorite child, a daughter, a fine, well-grown girl, upon whom the
father's heart had set its fondest seal--she it was that the hand of
Providence ordained to humble the proud heart of the sordid millionaire.
Cecelia Newschool, actuated by the noblest impulses of nature, had for
her husband sought "a _man_, not a money chest," and this circumstance
had made Cecelia a severed member of the Newschool family, who could
not, in the refined delicacy of their senses, tolerate such palpable
condescension as to acknowledge a tie that bound _them_ to the wife of a
poor artizan, whatever might be his talents or integrity as a man.

Francis Fairway had made honorable appeal to the heart of Cecelia, and
she repaid his pains with the full gift of a happy wife. She counted not
his worldly prospects, but yielded all to his constancy. She wished for
nothing but his love, and with that blessed beacon of life before her,
she looked but with joy and hope to the bright side of the sunny future.

The home of the artizan was a plain, but a happy one. Loving and
beloved, Cecelia scarce felt the loss of her sumptuous home and ties of
kindred. But not so the proud father and the patient mother, the haughty
sisters and brothers; they felt all; they attempted to conceal all, that
bitterness of soul, the canker that gnaws upon the heart when we will
strive to stifle the better parts of our natures.

Time passed on; one, two, or three years, are quickly passed and gone.
Though this little space of time made little or no change in the
families of the proud and indolent relatives, it brought many changes in
the eventful life of the young artizan and his wife. Two sweet little
babes nestled in the mother's arms, and a new and splendid invention of
the poor mechanic was reaping the wonder and admiration of all Europe
and America.

This was salt cast upon the affected wounds of the haughty relatives.
Now ashamed of their petty, poor, contemptible arrogance, they could not
in their hearts find space to welcome or partake of the proud dignity
with which honorable industry had crowned the labors of the young
mechanic.

It was a cold day in November; the wind was twirling and whistling
through the trees on the Common; the dead leaves were dropping seared
and yellow to the earth, admonishing the old gentleman whom we left
drumming upon the window, that--

    "_Such was life!_"

The old gentleman thumped and thumped the window pane with a dreary
_sotto voce_ accompaniment for some minutes, when he was interrupted by
an aged, pious-looking matron, who dropped her spectacles across the
book in her lap, as she sat in her chair by the fireside, and said--

"Joel."

"Umph?" responded the old gentleman.

"The Lord has spared us to see another Thanksgiving day, should we live
to see to-morrow."

"He has," responded Mr. Newschool.

"I've been thinking, Joel, that how ungrateful to God we are, for the
blessings, and prosperity, and long life vouchsafed to us, by a good and
benevolent Almighty."

"Rebecca," said the faltering voice of the rich man, "I know, I feel all
this as sensitive as you can possibly feel it."

"I was thinking, Joel," continued the good woman, "to-morrow we shall,
God permitting, be with our children and friends once again, together."

"I hope so, I trust we shall," answered the husband.

"And I was thinking, Joel," resumed the wife, "that the exclusion of our
own child, Cecelia, from the family re-unions, from joining us in
returning thanks to God for his mercy and preservation of us, is cruel
and offensive to Him we deign to render up our prayers."

"Rebecca," said the old gentleman, "I but agree with you in this, you
have but anticipated my feelings in the matter. I have long fought
against my better feelings and offended a discriminating God, I know.
Ashamed to confess my stubbornness and frailty before, I now freely
confess an altered feeling and better determination."

"Then, Joel, let our daughter Cecelia and her husband join with us
to-morrow in rendering our thanks to a just God and kind Providence."

"Be it so, Rebecca. God truly knows it will be a millstone relieved from
my heart. I wish it done."

Three family re-unions, three days of Thanksgiving had been held in the
paternal mansion of the Newschools, since Cecelia had left it for the
humble home of the poor artizan. But their several re-unions were
clouded, gloomy, unsocial affairs; there was a gap in the social circle
of the Newschool family, as they met on Thanksgiving day, which all
felt, but none hinted at. It was hard for a parent to invoke blessings
on a portion, but not all, of his own flesh and blood; it was hard to
return thanks for those dear ones present, and _wonder_ whether the
absent and equally dear had aught to be thankful for, whether instead of
health and comfort, they might not be sorrowing in disease, poverty, and
despair! Such things as these, when they obtrude upon the mind, the
soul, are not likely to make merry meetings. And such was the position
and nature of the re-union upon the late Thanksgiving days, at the
Newschool mansion. But better feelings were at work, and a happy change
was at hand.

Several carriages had already drove up to the door of Mr. Newschool,
Sen., and let down the different branches of the Newschool family. A
brighter appearance seemed gathering over the household than was usual
of late on Thanksgiving day, in the old family mansion. As each party
came, the good old mother duly informed them of the invitation given,
and the hope indulged in, that Cecelia and her husband would join the
family circle that day, in their re-union.

The proud sisters seemed willing, at last, to cast away their pride, and
greet their sister as became Christian and sensible women. The brothers,
chagrined at the unmanliness of their conduct, now gladly joined their
approval of what betokened, in fact, a happy family meeting. As the
clock on old South Church tower pealed out eleven, a pretty, smiling
young mother, in plain, but unexceptionable, neat attire, ascended the
large stone steps of the Newschool mansion, with a light and graceful
step, bearing a sleeping child in her arms.

Another moment, and Cecelia Fairway was in the arms of her old mother;
the smiles, kisses and tears of the whole family party were bountifully
showered upon poor Cecelia, and her sweet little daughter. Imagination
may always better paint such a scene, than could the feeble pen describe
it. The deep and gushing eloquence of human nature, when thus long pent,
bursts forth, sweeping the meagre devises of the pen before it, like
snow-flakes before the mighty mountain avalanche.

Oh! it was a happy sight, to see that party at their Thanksgiving
dinner.

Old Mr. Newschool, in his long and fervent prayer to the throne of
grace, expressed the day the happiest one of his long life. Quickly flew
the hours by, and as the shades of evening gathered around, Francis
Fairway was announced with a carriage for his wife's return home.
Francis Fairway, the artizan, was a proud, high-minded man, conscious of
his own position and merits, and scorned any base means to conciliate
the favor and patronage of his superiors in rank, birth, or education.
His deportment to the Newschool family was frank and manly; and they met
it with a sense of just appreciation and dignity, that did them honor.
Francis met a generous welcome, and the evening of Thanksgiving day was
spent in a happy re-union indeed. Upon Cecelia's and her husband's
return home, she found a small note thrust in the bosom of her child,
bearing this inscription--

    "Grandfather's Re-union gift to little Cecelia; Boston, Nov., 184-."

The note contained five $1000 bills on the old Granite Bank of Boston,
and which were duly placed in the old Bank fire-proof, to the account of
the little heir, the enterprise of the artizan having placed him above
the necessity of otherwise disposing of Joel Newschool's gift to the
grandchild.




Cabbage vs. Men.


Theodore Parker says, the cultivation of man is as noble and
praiseworthy a science, as the cultivation of cabbage, or the garden
sass! Says brother Theodore, "You don't cast garden-seed in the mire,
over the rough broken ground, and exhibit your benefits. No, you dig,
level, rake, and then sow your seed, you give them sunshine and water,
you tear out the weeds that would choke your infant vegetables--why
would you do less for the material man?" Pre-cisely! we pause for an
answer, proposals received from the learned--until we go to press.




Wanted--A Young Man from the Country.


All of our mercantile cities are overrun with young men who have been
bred for the counter or desk, and thousands of these genteel young gents
find it any thing but an easy matter to find bread or situations half
their time, in these crowded marts of men and merchandise. An
advertisement in a New York or New Orleans paper, for a clerk or
salesman, rarely fails to "turn up" a hundred needy and greedy
applicants, in the course of a morning! In New York, where a vast number
of these misguided young men are "manufactured," and continue to be
manufactured by the regiment, for an already surfeited market, there are
wretches who practise upon these innocent victims of perverted
usefulness, a species of fraud but slightly understood.

By a confederacy with some experienced dry goods dealer, the proprietor
of one of those agencies for procuring situations for young men,
_victims_ of misplaced confidence are put through at five to ten dollars
each, somewhat after this fashion: Sharp, the keeper of the Agency,
advertises for two good clerks, one book-keeper, five salesmen, ten
waiters, &c., &c.; and, of course, as every steamboat, car and stage,
running into New York, brings in a fresh importation of young men from
the country, all fitted out in the knowledge box for salesmen,
book-keepers and clerk-ships,--every morning, a new set are offered to
be taken in and done for. Sharp demands a fee of five or ten dollars for
obtaining a situation; victim forks over the amount, and is sent to
Sharp number two, who keeps the dry goods shop; he has got through with
a victim of yesterday, and is now ready for the fresh victim of to-day;
for he makes it a point to put them through such a gamut of labor,
vexatious man[oe]uvres and insolence, that not one out of fifty come
back next day, and if they do--_he don't want them!_ If the unsuspecting
victim returns to the "Agency," he is lectured roundly for his
incapacity or want of _energy!_--and advised to return to the country
and recuperate.

Jeremiah Bumps having graduated with all the honors of Sniffensville
Academy, and having many unmistakable longings for becoming a Merchant
Prince, and seeing sights in a city; and having read an account of the
great fortunes piled up in course of a few years, by poor, friendless
country boys, like Abbot Lawrence, John Jacob Astor, he up and came
right straight to Boston, having read it in the papers that clerks,
salesmen, book-keepers, and so on, were wanted, dreadfully--"young men
from the country preferred"--so he called on the _suffering_ agent for
the public, and paying down his _fee_, was sent off to an _Importing
House_, on ---- street, where a clerk and salesman were wanted. Jeremiah
found his idea of an _Importing House_ knocked into a disarranged
chapeau, by finding the one in the "present case," a large and luminous
_store_, filled up with paper boxes and sham bundles; while gaudily
festooned, were any quantity of calicoes, cheap shawls, ribbons, tapes,
and innumerable other tuppenny affairs.

Nebuchadnezzar Cheatum, the proprietor of this importing and jobbing
house, was a keen, little, slick-as-a-whistle, heavy-bearded, shaved and
starched genus, of six-and-thirty, more or less; and received Jeremiah
with a rather patronizing survey _personelle_, and opened the engagement
with a few remarks.

"From the country, are you?"

"Sniffensville, sir," said Jeremiah; "County of Scrub-oak, State of New
Hampshire."

"Ah, well, I prefer country-bred young men; they are better trained,"
said Cheatum, "to industry, perseverance, honest frugality, and the
duties of a Christian man. I was brought up in the country myself. I've
made myself; carved out, and built up my own position, sir. Yes, sir,
give me good, sound, country-bred young men; I've tried them, I know
what they are," said Cheatum; and he spoke near enough the truth to be
partly true, for he _had_ "tried them;" he averaged some fifty-two
clerks and an equal number of _salesmen_--yearly.

Jeremiah Bumps grew red in the face at the complimentary manner in which
Nebuchadnezzar Cheatum was pleased to review the country and its
institutions.

"What salary did you think of allowing?" says Jeremiah.

"Well," said Cheatum, "I allow my salesmen three dollars a week the
first year, (Jeremiah's ears cocked up,) and three per cent. on the
sales they make the second year."

By cyphering it up "in his head," Jeremiah came to the conclusion that
the _first_ year wouldn't add much to his pecuniary elevation, whatever
the second did with its three per cents. But he was bound to try it on,
anyhow.

"Now," said Cheatum, "in the first place, Solomon----"

"Jeremiah, if you please, sir," said the young man.

"Ah, yes, Thomas--_pshaw!_--Jediah, I would say," continued Cheatum,
correcting himself--

"Jeremiah--Jeremiah Bumps, sir," sharply echoed Mr. Bumps.

"Oh, yes, yes; one has so many clerks and salesmen in course of
business," said Cheatum, "that I get their names confused. Well,
Jeremiah, in the first place, you must learn to please the customers;
you must always be lively and spry, and never give an offensive answer.
Many women and girls come in to price and overhaul things, without the
remotest idea of buying anything, and it's often trying to one's
patience; but you must wait on them, for there is no possible means of
telling a woman who _shops_ for pastime, from one who shops in earnest;
so you must be careful, be polite, be lively and spry, and never let a
person _go_ without making a purchase, if you can possibly help it. If a
person asks for an article we have not got, endeavor to make them try
something else. If a woman asks whether four-penny calico, or six-penny
delaines will wash, say 'yes, ma'am, _beautifully_; I've tried them, or
seen them tried;' and if they say, 'are these ten cent flannels real
_Shaker flannels_? or the ninepence hose _all merino_?' better not
contradict them; say 'yes, ma'am, I've tried them, seen them tried, know
they are,' or similar appropriate answers to the various questions that
may be asked," said Cheatum.

"Yes, sir," Jeremiah responded, "I understand."

"And, William----"

"Jeremiah, sir, if you please."

"Oh, yes; well, Jediah--Jeremiah, I would say--when you make change,
never take a ten cent piece and two cents for a shilling, but give it as
often as practicable; look out for the fractions in adding up, and
beware of crossed six-pences, smooth shillings, and what are called
Bungtown coppers," said Cheatum, with much emphasis.

"I'm pooty well posted up, sir, in all _that_," said Jeremiah.

"And, Jeems--pshaw!--Jacob--Jeremiah! I would say, in measuring, always
put your thumb _so_, and when you move the yardstick forward, shove your
thumb an inch or so _back_; in measuring _close_ you may manage to
squeeze out five yards from four and three-quarters, you understand? And
always be watchful that some of those nimble, light-fingered folks don't
slip a roll of ribbon, or a pair of gloves or hose, or a piece of goods,
up their sleeves, in their bosoms, pockets, or under their shawls. Be
careful, Henry--Jeems, I should say," said Cheatum.

Being duly rehearsed, Jeremiah Bumps went to work. The first customer he
had was a little girl, who bought a yard of ribbon for ninepence, and
Jeremiah not only stretched seven-eighths of a yard into a full yard,
but made twelve cents go for a ninepence, which _feat_ brought down the
vials of wrath of the child's mother, a burly old Scotch woman, who
"tongue-lashed" poor Jeremiah awfully! His next adventure was the sale
of a dress pattern of sixpenny de-laine, which he _warranted_ to contain
all the perfections known to the best article, and in dashing his
vigorous scissors through the fabric, he caught them in the folds of a
dozen silk handkerchiefs on the counter, and ripped them all into
slitters! The young woman who took the dress pattern, upon reaching
home, found it contained but eight yards, when she paid for nine. She
came back, and Jeremiah Bumps got another bombasting! He sold fourpenny
calico, and warranted it to wash; next day it came back, and an old lady
with it; the colors and starch were all out, by dipping it in water, and
the woman went on so that Cheatum was glad to refund her money to get
rid of her. Two dashing young ladies, out "shopping" for their own
diversions, gave Jeremiah a call; he labored hand and tongue, he hauled
down and exhibited Cheatum's entire stock; the girls then were leaving,
saying they would "call again," and Jeremiah very amiably said, "do,
ladies, do; call again, _like to secure your custom!_" The young ladies
took this as an insult. Their big brothers waited on Mr. Bumps, and
nothing short of his humble apologies saved him from enraged cowhides!
Jeremiah saw a suspicious woman enter the store, and after overhauling a
box of gloves, he thought he saw her _pocket a pair_. He intercepted the
lady as she was going out--he grabbed her by the pocket--the lady
resisted--Jeremiah held on--the lady fainted, and Jeremiah Bumps nearly
tore her dress off in pulling out the gloves! The lady proved to be the
wife of a distinguished citizen, and the gloves purchased at another
store! A lawsuit followed, and Mr. Bumps was fined $100, and sent to the
House of Correction for sixty days.

How many new clerks Nebuchadnezzar Cheatum has put through since, we
know not; but Jeremiah Bumps is now engaged in the practical science of
agriculture, and shudders at the idea of a young man from the country
being _wanted_ in a dry goods shop, if they have got to see the elephant
that he _observed--in Boston_.




Presence of Mind.


Mr. Davenport--the "Ned Davenport" of the Bowery boys--before sailing
for Europe and while attached to the Bowery Theatre, was of the lean and
hungry kind. In fact he was extremely lean--tall as a may-pole, and
slender enough to crawl through a greased _fleute_,--to use a yankeeism.

Somebody "up" for Shylock one night, at the Bowery, was suddenly
"indisposed" or, in the strongest probability, quite stupefied from the
effect of the deadly poisons retailed in the numerous groggeries that
really swarm near the Gotham play-houses. Well, Mr. Davenport--a
gentleman who has reached a most honorable position in his profession by
sobriety and talent--was substituted for the indisposed _Shylock_, and
the play went on.

In the trial scene, Mr. Davenport really "took down the house" by his
vehemence, and his ferocious, lean, and hungry aspirations for the pound
of flesh! One of the b'hoys, so identical with the B'ow'ry pit, got
quite worked up; he twisted and squirmed, he chewed his cud, he stroked
his "soap-lock," but, finally, wrought up to great presence of
mind,--our lean Shylock still calling for his pound of flesh,--roars
out;--

"S'ay, look a' here,--_why don't you give skinny de meat, don't you see
he wants it, sa-a-a-y!_"

We very naturally infer that "the piece" _went off with a rush!_




The Skipper's Schooner.


No better specimen of the genus, genuine Yankee nation, can be found,
imagined or described, than the skippers of along shore, from
Connecticut river to Eastport, Maine. These critters give full scope to
the Hills and Hacketts of the stage, and the Sam Slicks and
Falconbridges of the press, to embody and sketch out in the broadest
possible dialect of Yankee land. One of these "tarnal critters," it is
my purpose to draw on for my brief sketch, and I wish my readers to do
me the credit to believe that for little or no portion of my yarn or
language am I indebted to fertility of imagination, as the incidents are
real, and quite graphic enough to give piquancy to the subject.

Last spring, just after the breaking up of winter, a down-east smack or
schooner, freighted with cod-fish and potatoes, I believe, rounded off
Cape Ann light, and owing to head winds, or some other perversity of a
nautical nature, could no further go; so the skipper and his crew--one
man, green as catnip--made for an anchorage, and hove the "hull consarn"
to. Here they lay, and tossed and chafed, at their moorings, for a day
or two, without the slightest indication on the part of the weather to
abate the nuisance. So the commander of the schooner got in his little
"dug-out," and giving the aforesaid crew special injunctions to keep all
fast, he pulled off to shore to take a look around.

Now, it so fell out that in the course of a few hours' time after the
departure of the skipper, a snorting east wind sprang up, and not only
blew great guns, but chopped up a short, heavy sea, perfectly
astonishing and alarming to Hezekiah Perkins, in the rolling and
pitching schooner. It was Hez's first attempt at seafaring; and this
sort of reeling and waltzing about, as a matter of course, soon
discomboberated his bean basket, and set his head in a whirl and dancing
motion--better conceived by those who have seen the sea elephant than
described. Hez got dea-a-athly sick, so sick he could not budge from the
stern sheets, where he had taken a squat in the early commencement of
his difficulties. In the mean time, the skipper came down to the beach
and hailed the victim:

"Hel-LO! hel-LO!"

Hez feebly elevated his optics, and looking to the windward, where stood
his noble captain, he made an effort to say over something:

"Wha-a-t ye-e-e want?"

"What do I want? Why, yeou pesky critter, yeou, go for'ard thar and hist
the jib, take up the anchor, put your helm a-lee, and beat up to town!"

This was all very well, provided the skipper was there to superintend,
manage and carry out his voluble orders; but as the surf prevented him
from coming on board, and the lightness of Hez's head militated against
the almost superhuman possibility of carrying out the skipper's orders,
things remained _in statu quo_, the skipper ashore, and Hez fervently
wishing he was too.

"Ain't you a-going to stir round there, and save the vessel?" bawled the
excited captain.

"How on airth," groaned the horror-stricken mariner, "how on airth am I
to help it?"

"Wall, by Columbus, she'll go clean ashore, or blow eout to sea afore
long, sure as death!" responded the skipper; and before he had fairly
concluded his augury, sure enough, the halser parted, the schooner slew
round and made a bee-line _for Cowes and a market!_ This rather brought
Hezekiah to his oats--he riz, tottering and feeble, on his shaky pins,
and crawled forward to get up the jib.

"O ye-s, now yeou're coming about it, yes, yeou be," bawled the almost
frantic skipper, as the distance between him and his vessel was
increasing. "Put her abeout and head her up the ba-a-y!" But it was no
kind of use in talking, for Hezekiah could not raise the jib; and his
imperfect nautical knowledge, under such a snarl, completely bewildered
and disgusted him with the prospect. So saying over the seven
commandments and other serious lessons of youth, Hezekiah resigned
himself to the tumultuous elements, and concluded it philosophical and
scriptural resignation to let Providence and the old schooner fix out
the programme just as they might. It is commonly reported, that our
mackerel catchers, when a storm or gale overtakes them on the briny
deep, lash all fast and go below, turn in and let their smacks rip along
to the best of their knowledge and ability. They seldom founder or get
severely scathed; and these facts, or perfect indifference, having
entered the head of Hezekiah Perkins, he became perfectly unconcerned as
to future developments. Night coming on, the skipper saw his schooner
fast departing out to sea, and when she was no longer to be seen, he
made tracks for Boston, to report the melancholy facts to the owners of
the vessel and cargo, and see about the insurance.

Next morning, the skipper having discovered that the insurance was safe,
he found himself in better spirits; so he walked down along the wharves,
to take a look out upon the bay and shipping--when lo, and behold, he
sees a vessel so amazingly like his Two Pollies, that he could not
refrain from exclaiming:

"Hurrah! hurrah! By Christopher Columbus--if thar don't come my old
beauty and Hez Perkins, too--hurrah!"

The overjoyed skipper went off into a double hornpipe on a single
string; and as the veritable schooner came booming saucily up the bay
before a spanking breeze, with her jib spread, the skipper called out in
a voice of thunder and gladness:

"Hel-lo! Hez Perkins, is that yeou?"

"Hel-lo! Cap'n, I'm coming, by pumpkins! Clear the track for the Two
Pollies!" And putting her head in among the smacks of Long Wharf, Hez
let her rip and smash chock up fast and tight. When the captain landed
on his own deck, he rushed into the arms of his brave mate Hezekiah, and
they had a regular fraternal hug all round--and Hezekiah Perkins, in
behalf of his wonderful skill, perseverance and luck, was unanimously
voted first mate of the Two Pollies on the spot. It appeared that a
change of wind during the night had driven the wandering vessel back
into the bay, and Hezekiah, having got over his sick spell by daylight,
crawled forward, got up the jib, and actually made the wharf, as we have
described.




Philosophy of the Times.


The philosophy of the present age is peculiarly the philosophy of
outsides. Few dive deeper into the human breast than the bosom of the
shirt. Who could doubt the heart that beats beneath a cambric front? or
who imagine that hand accustomed to dirty work which is enveloped in
white kid? What Prometheus was to the physical, the tailor is to the
moral man--the one made human beings out of clay, the other cuts
characters out of broadcloth. Gentility is, with us, a thing of the
goose and shears.




The Emperor and the Poor Author.

     "The pen is mightier than the sword."


Great men are not the less liable or addicted to very small, and very
mean, and sometimes very _rascally acts_, but they are always fortunate
in having any amount of panegyric graven on marble slabs, shafts and
pillars, o'er their dust, and eulogistic and profound histories written
in memories of the deeds of renown and glory they have executed. An
American 74-gun ship would hardly float the mountains of _tomes_ written
upon Bonaparte and his brilliant career, as a soldier and a conqueror;
but how precious few, insignificant pages do we ever see of the
misdeeds, tyrannies and acts of petty and contemptuous meanness so great
a man was guilty of! Why should authors and orators be so reluctant to
tell the truth of a great man's follies and crimes, seeing with what
convenience and fluency they will _lie_ for him? We contend, and shall
contend, that a truly great man cannot be guilty of a small act, and
that one contemptible or atrocious manifestation in man, is enough to
sully--tarnish the brightness of a dozen brilliant deeds; but
apparently, the accepted notion is--_vice versa_.

In 1830, there lived in the city of Philadelphia, a barber, a poor,
harmless, necessary barber. His antique, or most curious costume,
attracted much attention about the vicinity in which he lived, and no
doubt added somewhat to the custom of his shop, itself a _bijou_ as
curious almost as the proprietor. But as our story has but little to do
with the queer outside of the _barber_ or his _shop_, and we do not now
purpose a whole history of the man, we shall at once proceed to the pith
of our subject--the Emperor and the poor Author, or Napoleon and his
Spies--and in which our aforesaid Philadelphia barber plays a
conspicuous part.

Some of the writers, a few of those partially daring enough to give an
impartial _expose_ of the history of the Bonapartean times, seem to
think that Napoleon committed a great error in his accession to the
throne, by doubting the stability of his reign, and having pursued
exactly measures antipodean to those necessary to seat him firmly in the
hearts of the people, and cement the foundation of his newly-acquired
power. But we don't think so; the means by which he obtained the giddy
height, to a comprehensive mind like his, at once suggested the
necessity of vigilance, promptness, and unflinching execution of
whatever act, however tyrannous or heartless it might have been, his
unsleeping mind suggested--

     "Crowns got with blood, by blood must be maintained."

Jealous and suspicious, he sought to shackle public opinion--the fearful
hydra to all ambitious aspirants--to know all _secrets_ of the time and
states, and render one half of the great nations he held in his grasp
spies upon the other! The most profligate principles of Machiavel sink
into obscurity when contrasted with the Imperial _Espionage_ of
Napoleon. When no longer moving squadrons in the tented field--whole
armies, like so many pieces of chess in the hands of a dexterous
player--he sat upon his throne, reclined upon his lounge or smoked in
his bath, organized and moved the most difficult and dangerous forces in
the world--_an army of Spies!_

All ages, from that of infancy to decrepitude--all conditions of life,
from peer to parvenu--from plough to the anvil--pulpit to the
bar--orators and beggars, soldiers and sailors, male and female of every
grade--men of the most insinuating address, and women of the most
seductive ages and loveliness, grace and beauty were enlisted and
trained to serve--in what the pot-bellied, bald-headed little monster of
war used to call his _Cytherian Cohort!_ Snares set by these imperial
policemen were difficult to avoid, from the almost utter impossibility
of suspicioning their presence or power.

In 1808, a learned Italian, noble by birth, in consequence of the
movements and _executions_ of Napoleon, found it prudent to shave off
his moustache and titles, and change the scene of his future life, as
well as change his name. A master of languages and a man of mind, he
sought the learned precincts of Leipsic, Germany, where he preserved his
incognito, though he was not long in winning the grace, and other
considerations due enlarged intellect, from those not lacking that
invaluable commodity themselves. Herr Beethoven--the new title of our
Italian "mi lord"--conceived the project of convincing the mighty
Emperor--the hero of the sword--that so little a javelin as the pen
could puncture the _sac_ containing all _his_ great pretensions, and let
the vapor out; in short, to show the conqueror, that the pen _was_
mightier than his magic sword. Beethoven purposed writing a pamphlet
_memorial_, involving the bombastic pretensions, the gigantic
extravagance and arrogant ambition of Bonaparte. The man of letters well
knew the ground upon which he was to tread, the danger of ambushed foes,
involving such a _brochure_, and the caution necessary with which he was
to produce his work. But Beethoven felt the necessity of the production;
he possessed the power to execute a great benefit to his fellow man, and
he determined to wield it and take the chances. Though scarcely giving
breath to his project--guarding each page of his writing as vigilantly
as though they were each blessed with the enchantment of a
_Koh-i-Noor_--a mysterious agency discovered the fact--Napoleon shook
in his royal boots, and swore in good round French, when the following
missive reached his royal eye:--

     _Sire(!)_--A plot is brewing against your peace; the safety of your
     throne is menaced by a villainous scribe. My informant, who has
     read the manuscripts, informs me that he has never seen any thing
     better or more imposing, and ingenious in argument and force, than
     the fellow's appeal to all the crowned heads and people of Europe.
     It is calculated to carry an irresistible conviction of the wrongs
     they suffer from your imperial majesty to every breast. These
     manuscripts are fraught with more danger to your Imperial Majesty's
     Empire, than all the hostile bayonets in the world combined against
     you, Sire.

     Leipsic, 1808. Baron De----.

Here was a hot shot dangling over the magazines of the mighty man, and
the "little corporal" jumped into his boots, and began to set the wheels
of his great "expediency" in motion. A message flew here, and another
there; a dispatch to this one, and a royal order to that one. A dozen
secretaries, and a score of _amanuensises_ were instantly at work, and
the alarmed "Emperor of all the French" fairly beat the _reveille_ upon
his diamond-cased snuff box; while, with the rapidity of the clapper of
an alarm bell, he issued to each the oral order to which they were to
lend enchantment by their rapid quills.

Herr Beethoven was surprised in his very closet! Papers were found
scattered all over his little sanctum--the spies had him and his
effects, most promptly; but what was the rage and disappointment of the
emissaries of the wily monarch, to find neither hair nor hide of the
dreaded _fiat!_ Had it gone forth? Was it secreted? Was it written?

They had the _man_, but his flesh and blood were as valueless as a
pebble to a diamond, contrasted with the witchery of the _words_ he had
invested a few sheets of simple paper with! They searched his
clothes--tore up his bed, broke up his furniture, powdered his few
pieces of statuary, but all in vain--the sought for, dreaded, and hated
documents, for which his _Imperial highness_ would have secretly given
ten--twenty--fifty thousand _louis_--was not to be found! The rage of
the inquisitors was terrific--showing how well they were chosen or paid,
to serve in their atrocious capacities. The poor scribe was promised all
manner of unpleasant _finales_, cursed, menaced, and finally coaxed.

"I have written nothing--published nothing, nor do I intend to write or
publish anything," was Beethoven's reply.

"Speak fearlessly," said the chief of the inquisitors, "and rely upon a
generous monarch's benevolence. My commission, sir, is limited to
ascertain whether poverty has not compelled you to write; if that be the
case, speak out; place any price upon your work--the price is nothing--I
will pay you at once and destroy your documents."

"Your offers, sir," responded the poor author, "are most kind and
liberal, and I regret extremely that it is _not_ in my power to avail
myself of them. I again declare, sir, that I have never written anything
against the French government--your information to the contrary is false
and wicked."

The spies, finding they could not gain any information of the author, by
threat or bribe, carried him to France, where his doom was supposed to
be sealed in torture and death, in the _Bastile_ of the Emperor.

But where was this fearful manuscript--this dreaded scribbling of the
God-forsaken, poor, forlorn author? The emissaries of his serene
highness had the blood, bones, and body of the wretched scribe, but
where was that they feared more than all the warlike forces of a million
of the best equipped forces of Europe--the paltry paper pellets of a
scholar's brain--the _memorial_ to the crowned heads, and people of the
several shivering monarchies of continental Europe?

A few brief hours--not two days--before the _pseudo_ Herr Beethoven was
honored by the special considerations and attentions of the Emperor of
all the French--the conqueror of a third, at least, of the civilized
world--he had conceived suspicions of a man to whom in the _most
profound confidence_ he had revealed a slight whisper of his
projects--impressed with the foreshadowing that a mysterious _something_
dangerous was about to menace him, he made way with the manuscripts, to
which his soul clung as too dear and precious to be destroyed--he gave
them to the charge of a tried friend--and before the _Cytherian Cohort_
were upon the threshold of the author, his _memorial_ was snugly
ensconced in the obscure and remote secretary of a gentleman and a man
of letters, in the renowned city of Prague. The alarm and friend's
appearance seemed most opportune--for an hour after the visitation of
the one, the other was at hand--the documents transferred and on their
way to their place of refuge.

But difficult was the stepping-stone to Napoleon's greatness--the more
the mystery of the manuscripts augmented--the more enthusiastic became
his research--the more formidable appeared the necessity of grasping
them; and the determination, at all hazards, to clutch them, before they
served their purpose!

"Bring me the manuscripts"--was the _fiat_ of the Emperor: "I care not
_how_ you obtain them--get them, _bring them here_; and mark you, let
neither money, danger nor fatigue, oppose my will. Hence--bring the
manuscripts!"

Again Leipsic was invested by the _Cytherian Cohort_ of the modern
Alexander; the rival of Hannibal, the great little commandant of the
most warlike nation of the earth. The Baron ----, who was master of
ceremonies in this great enterprise, now arrested the secret agent who
had given the information of the existence of the _memorial_. This
wretch had received five hundred crowns for his espionage and
treachery. His fee was to be quadrupled if his atrocious information
proved correct; so dear is the mere foreshadowing of ill news to
vaunting ambition and quaking imposters. Bengert, the German spy, was
sure of the genuineness of his information--he was much astonished that
the Baron had not seized the _memorial_, as well as the body of the
hapless author. The Baron and the treacherous German conferred at
length; an idea seemed to strike the spy.

"I have it," he exclaimed, a few days before his arrest. "I saw a friend
visit Beethoven; I know they both entertained the same sentiments in
regard to the Emperor--_that man has the manuscripts_."

Where was that man? It was finding the needle in the hay stack--_the_
pebble in the brook. Again the Emperor urged, and the _Cytherian Cohort_
plied their cunning and perseverance. That _friend_ of the poor author
was found--he was tilling his garden, surrounded by his flower pots and
children, on the outskirts of Prague, Bohemia. It was in vain he
questioned his captors. He dropped his gardening implements--blessed his
children--kissed them, and was hurried off, he knew not whither or
wherefore! Shaubert was this man's name; he was forty, a widower--a
scholar, a poet--liberally endowed by wealth, and loved the women!

It was Baron ----'s province to find out the weak points of each victim.

"If he has a _particular_ regard for _poetry_, he does love the fine
arts," quoth the Baron, "and women are the queens of _fine arts_. I'll
have him!"

In the secret prison of Shaubert he found an old man, confined for--he
could not learn what. Every day, the yet youthful and most fascinating,
voluptuous and beautiful daughter of the old man, visited his cell,
which was adjoining that of Shaubert's. As she did so, it was not long
before she found occasion to linger at the door of the widower, the
poet--and sigh so piteously as to draw from the victim, at first a holy
poem, and at length an amative love lay. Like fire into tow did this
effusion of the poet's quill inflame the breast and arouse the passions
of the lovely Bertha; and in an obscure hour, after pouring forth the
soul's burden of most vehement love, the angel in woman's form(!), with
implements as perfect as the very jailor's, opened all the bolts and
bars, and led the captive forth to liberty! She would have the poet who
had entranced her, fly and leave her to her fate! But _poetry_ scorned
such dastardy--it was but to brave the uncertainty of fate to stay, and
torture to go--Bertha must fly with him. She had a father--could she
leave him in bondage? No! She had rescued her lover--she braved
more--released her parent in the next hour, by the same mysterious
means, and giving herself up to the tempest of love, she shared in the
flight of the poet. In a remote section of chivalric Bohemia, they found
an asylum. But Bertha was as yet but the deliverer from bondage, if not
death, of her soul's idol; he, with all the warmth and gratitude of a
dozen poets, worshipped at her feet and besought her to bless him
evermore by sharing his fate and fortune. There was a something
imposing, a something that brought the pearly tear to the heroic girl's
eye and made that lovely bosom undulate with most sad emotion. The poet
pressed her to his heart--fell at her feet, and begged that if his
life--property--children--be the sacrifice--but let him know the secret
at once--he was her friend--defender--lover--slave. Another sigh, and
the spell was broken.

"Why--ah! why were you a state prisoner--a _secret_ prisoner in
the ----?"

"Loved angel," answered the poet, "I scarce can tell; indeed I have not
the merest _hint_, in my own mind, to tell me for what I was arrested
and thrown into prison!"

"Ah! sir," sighed the lovely Bertha, "I can never then wed the man I
love--I cannot brave the dangers of an unknown fate--at some moment
least expected, to be torn from his arms--lost to him forever!"

"We can fly, dearest," suggested the poet, "we can fly to other and more
secure lands. In the sunshine of your sweet smile, my dear Bertha,
obscurity--poverty would be nothing."

"No," said the girl, "I cannot leave my father--the land of my
birth--home of my childhood. I that have given you liberty, may point
out a way to deliver you from further restraint. How I learned the
nature of your crime, ask not; I know your secret."

"Ah! what mean you?"

"In a foolish hour," continued the lovely Bertha, with downcast eyes and
heaving bosom, "you impaled your generous self to save a friend--the
friend fled--you were arrested--"

"Good God!" exclaimed the poet, "Herr Beethoven----"

"Gave you possession of----" she continued.

"No! no! no!" interposed the affrighted poet, daring not to breathe
"yes," even to the ear of his fair preserver.

"Sir," calmly continued the girl, "I have risked my own life and liberty
to preserve yours, I have----"

"I--I know it all, dear--dearest angel, but----"

"Those manuscripts," she continued, fixing her keen but melting gaze
upon the poor victim.

"Ha! manuscripts? How learned you this? No, no, it cannot be----"

"It is known--I know it--I learned it from your captors; but for my
_love_," said the girl, "mad--guilty love--your life would have been
forfeited--your house pillaged by the emissaries of the Emperor, in
quest of those manuscripts. While they exist, Bertha cannot be
happy--Bertha's love must die with her--Bertha be ever miserable!"

"I-a--I will--but no! no! I have no manuscripts! It is false--false!"
exclaimed the almost distracted poet.

"Herr Shaubert," said the girl, clasping the hand of the poet, and
throwing herself at his feet, "am I unworthy your love?"

"Dear, dear Bertha, do not torture me! do not, for God's sake! Rise; let
me at your feet swear, in answer--_No!_"

"Then, within four-and-twenty hours, let me grasp that hated, damned
viper, that would gnaw the heart's core of Bertha. Give me the key of
your misery; O! bless me--bless your Bertha; give me those accursed
manuscripts, daggers bequeathed you by a false friend, that I may at
once, in your presence, give them to the flames; and Bertha, the idol of
your soul, be ever more blessed and happy!"

This appeal settled the business of the poet; he walked the room,
sighed, tore his _mouchoir_, oscillated between honor and
temptation--the angel form and syren tongue of the woman triumphed. In
course of a dozen hours, Bertha, the lovely, enchanting _spy_, opened
the secret drawers of the poet's secretary, and amid carefully-packed
literary rubbish, the dreaded _memorial_ was found--clutched with the
eagerness of a death-reprieve to a poor felon upon the verge of
eternity, and with the despatch of an hundred swift relays, the poor
author's manuscripts were placed in the hands of the mighty Emperor, and
while he read their fearful purport, and flashed with rage or grew livid
with each scathing word of the _memorial_, he hurriedly issued his
orders--gain to this one, sacrifice to that one; while he made the spy a
_countess_, he ordered hideous death to the poor poet and despair and
misery to his children.

"Fly!" the monarch shouted, "search every one suspected of a hand in
this; let them be dealt with instantly--trouble me not with detail, but
give me sure returns. Stop not, until this viper is exterminated; egg
and tooth; fang and scale; see it done and claim my bounty--_fly!_"

That _snake_ was scotched and killed--the few brief pages of an obscure
author that drove sleep, appetite and peace from the mighty Emperor, for
days and nights--made busy work for his thousands of
emissaries--scattered his gold in weighty streams--was read, cursed and
destroyed, and all suspected as having the slightest voice or opinion in
the secret _memorial_, met a secret fate--death or prolonged
wretchedness.

Herr Beethoven, the poor author, alone escaped; being overlooked in the
hot pursuit of his production, and by the blunder of those having charge
of himself and hundreds of other state prisoners--guilty or _suspected_
opponents to the vaulting ambition and power of him that at last ended
his own eventful career as a helpless prisoner upon an ocean isle--was
liberated and lost no time in making his way beyond the reach of
monarchs, tyranny and bondage. Beethoven came to America and settled in
Philadelphia, where, in the humble capacity of an e-razer of beards and
pruner of human mops, he eked out a reasonable existence for the residue
of his earthly existence; few, perhaps, dreaming in their profoundest
philosophy, that the little, eccentric-attired, grotesque-looking
barber, who tweaked their plebeian noses and combed their caputs, once
rejoiced in grand heraldic escutcheons upon his carriage panels as a
veritable Count, and still later made the throne tremble beneath the
feet of a second Alexander!

But God is great, and the ways of our every-day life, full of change and
mystery.




The Bigger Fool, the Better Luck.


The American "Ole Bull," young Howard, one of the most scientific
crucifiers of the _violin_ we ever heard, gave us a call t'other day,
and not only discoursed heavenly music upon his instrument, but gave us
the "nub" of a few jokes worth dishing up in our peculiar style. Howard
spent last winter in a tour over the State of _Maine_ and Canada. During
this _cool_ excursion, he got way up among the _wood_-choppers and
_log_-men of the Aroostook and Penobscot country. These wood-chopping
and log-rolling gentry, according to all accounts, must be a jolly,
free-and-easy, hard-toiling and hardy race. The "folks" up about there
live in very primitive style; their camps and houses are very useful,
but not much addicted to the "ornamental." Howard had a very long,
tedious and perilous _tramp_, on foot, during a part of his
peregrinations, and coming at last upon the settlement of the log-men,
he laid up several days, to recuperate. In the largest log building of
the several in the neighborhood, Howard lodged; the weather was
intensely cold--house crowded, and wood and game plenty. After a hard
day's toil, in snow and water, these log-men felt very much inclined, to
sleep. A huge fire was usually left upon the hearth, after the "tea
things" were put away, Howard gave them a _choon_ or two, and then the
woodmen lumbered up a rude set of steps--into a capacious loft overhead,
and there, amid the old quilts, robes, skins and straw, enjoyed their
sound and refreshing sleep--with a slight drawback.

Among these men of the woods, was a hard old nut, called and known among
them as--_Old Tantabolus!_ He was a wiry and hardy old rooster; though
his frosty poll spoke of the many, many years he had "been around," his
body was yet firm and his perceptions yet clear. The old man was a grand
spinner of yarns; he had been all around creation, and various other
places not set down in the maps. He had been a soldier and sailor: been
blown up and shot down: had had all the various ills flesh was heir to:
suffered from shipwreck and indigestion: witnessed the frowns and smiles
of fortune--especially the _frowns_; in short, according to old man
Tantabolus's own account of himself, he had seen more ups and downs, and
made more narrow and wonderful escapes, than Robinson Crusoe and
Gulliver both together--with Baron Trenck into the bargain!

For the first season, the old man and his narrations, being fresh and
novel, he was quite a _lion_ among the woodmen, but now that the novelty
had worn off, and they'd got used to his long yarns, they voted him "an
old bore!" The old fellow smoked a tremendous pipe, with tobacco strong
enough to give a Spaniard the "yaller fever." He would eat his supper,
light his pipe--sit down by the fire, and spin yarns, as long as a
listener remained, and longer. In short, Old Tantabolus would _spin_
them all to bed, and then make their heads spin, with the clouds of
_baccy_ smoke with which he'd fill the _ranche_.

Going to bed, at length, on a bunk in a corner, the old chap would
wheeze and snore for an hour or two, and then turning out again, between
daybreak and midnight, Old Tantabolus would pile on a cord or two of
fresh wood--raise a roaring fire--make the _ranche_ hot enough to roast
an ox, then treat all hands to another _stifling_ with his old
_calumet_, and <DW65>-head tobacco! Then would commence a--

"A-booh! oo-_oo!_" by one of the lodgers, overhead.

"Boo-oo-_ooh!_ Old Tantabolus's got that--booh-oo-oo-_oo_,--pipe of
his'n again,--boo-oo-oo!" chimed another.

"A-a-a-_chee!_ oo-oo-augh-h-h-_ch-chee!_ Cuss that--a-_chee_--pipe.
Tantabolus, you old hoss-marine, put out that--a-_chee!_--darn'd old
pipe!" bawled another.

"A'_nand_?" was the old fellow's usual reply.

"A-boo-ooh-_ooh!_" hoarse and loud as a boatswain's call, in a gale of
wind, would be issued from the throat of an old "logger," as the
fumigacious odor interfered with his respiratory arrangements, and then
would follow a miscellaneous--

"A-_chee_-o! Ah-_chee!_ boo-ooh-oo-_ooh!_" tapering off with divers
curses and threats, upon Old Tantabolus and his villanous habits of
arousing "the whole community" in "the dead watches and middle of the
night," with heat and smoke, no flesh and blood but his own could
apparently endure.

At length, a private _caucus_ was held, and a diabolical plan set, to
put a summary end to the grievous nuisances engendered by Old
Tantabolus--"_let's blow him up!_"

And this they agreed to do in _this_ wise. Before "retiring to rest," as
we say in civilized _parlance_, the lodging community were in the habit
of laying in a surplus of firewood, alongside of the capacious
fire-place, in order--should a very common occurrence _occur_,--i. e., a
fall of snow six to ten feet deep, and kiver things all up, the insiders
might have wherewith to make themselves comfortable, until they could
work out and provide more. But Old Tantabolus was in the wasteful
practice of turning out and burning up all this extra fuel; so the
caucus agreed to bore an inch and a quarter hole into a solid
stick--pack it with powder--lay it among the wood, and when Old
Tantabolus _riz_ to fire up, he'd be blowed out of the building, and
disappear--_in a blue blaze!_ Well, poor old man, Tantabolus, quite
unconscious of the dire explosion awaiting him, told his yarns, next
evening, with greater _gusto_ than usual, and one after another of his
listeners finally dropped off to _roost_, in the loft above, leaving
the old man to go it alone--finish his pipe, stagnate the air and go to
his bunk, which, as was his wont to do--he did. Stillness reigned
supreme; though Old Tantabolus took his usual snooze in very apparent
confidence, many of his no less weary companions above--watched for the
approaching _tableaux!_ And they were gratified, to their heart's
content, for the tableaux _came!_

"Now, look out, boys!" says one, "Old _Tanty's_ about to wake up!" and
then some dozen of the upper story lodgers, who had kept their peepers
open to enjoy the fun, began to spread around and pull away the loose
straw in order to get a view of the scene below. Sure enough, the old
rooster gave a long yawn--"Aw-w-w-w-_um!_" flirted off his "kiverlids"
and got up, making a slow move towards the fire-place, reaching which,
he gave an extra "Aw-w-w-_um!_" knocked the ashes out of his
pipe--filled it up with "<DW65>-head," dipped it in the embers, gave it
a few whiffs, and then said:

"Booh! cold mornin'; boys'll freeze, if I don't start up a good fire."
Then he went to work to cultivate a blaze, with a few chips and light
sticks of dry wood.

"Ah, by George, old feller," says one, "you'll catch a bite, before you
know it!"

"Yes, I'm blamed if you ain't a _goner_, Old Tantabolus!" says another,
in a pig's whisper.

"There! there he's got the fire up--now look out!"

"He's got the stick--"

"Goin' to clap it on!"

"Now it's on!"

"Look out for fun, by George, look out!"

"He'll blow the house up!"

"Godfrey! s'pose he does?"

"What an infernal _wind_ there is this morning!" says the old fellow,
hearing the _buzz_ and indistinct whispering overhead; "guess it's
snowin' like _sin_; I'll jist start up this fire and go out and see."
But, he had scarcely reached and opened the door, when--"_bang-g-g!_"
went the log, with the roar of a twelve pounder; hurling the fire, not
only all over the lower floor, but through the upper loose
flooring--setting the straw beds in a blaze--filling the house with
smoke, ashes and fire! There was a general and indiscriminate _rush_ of
the practical jokers in the loft, to make an escape from the now burning
building; but the step-ladder was knocked down, and it was at the peril
of their lives, that all hands jumped and crawled out of the _ranche!_
The only one who escaped the real danger was Old Tantabolus, the
intended victim, whose remark was, after the flurry was over--"Boys,
arter this, _be careful how you lay your powder round!_"




An Active Settlement.


Gen. Houston lives, when at home, at Huntsville, Texas; the inhabitants
mostly live, says Humboldt, Beeswax, Borax, or some of the other
historians, by hunting. The wolves act as watchmen at night, relieved
now and then by the Ingins, who make the wig business brisk by relieving
straggling citizens of their top-knots. A man engaged in a quiet smoke,
sees a deer or bear sneaking around, and by taking down his rifle, has
steaks for breakfast, and a haunch for next day's dinner, right at his
door. Vegetables and fruit grow naturally; flowers come up and bloom
spontaneously. The distinguished citizens wear buck-skin trowsers,
<DW53>-skin hats, buffalo-skin overcoats, and alligator-hide boots. Old
San Jacinto walked into the Senate last winter--fresh from home--with a
panther-skin vest, and bear-skin breeches on! Great country, that
Texas.




A Yankee in a Pork-house


"Conscience sakes! but hain't they got a lot of pork here?" said a
looker-on in Quincy Market, t'other day.

"Pork!" echoes a decidedly _Green_ Mountain biped, at the elbow of the
first speaker.

"Yes, I vow it's quite as-_tonishing_ how much pork is sold here and
_et_ up by somebody," continued the old gent.

"Et up?" says the other, whose physical structure somewhat resembled a
fat lath, and whose general _contour_ made it self-evident that _he_ was
not given much to frivolity, jauntily-fitting coats and breeches, or
perfumed and "fixed up" barberality extravagance.

"Et up!" he thoughtfully and earnestly repeated, as his hands rested in
the cavity of his trousers pockets, and his eyes rested upon the first
speaker.

"You wern't never in Cincinnatty, _I_ guess?"

"No, I never was," says the old gent.

"Never was? Well, I cal'lated not. Never been _in_ a Pork-haouse?"

"Never, unless you may call this a Pork-house?"

"The-is? Pork-haouse?" says Yankee. "Well, I reckon not--don't
begin--'tain't nothin' like--not a speck in a puddle to a Pork-haouse--a
Cincinnatty Pork-haouse!"

"I've hearn that they carry on the Pork business pooty stiff, out
there," says the old gentleman.

"Pooty stiff? Good gravy, but don't they? 'Pears to me, I knew yeou
somewhere?" says our Yankee.

"You might," cautiously answers the old gent.

"'Tain't 'Squire Smith, of Maoun-Peelier?"

"N'no, my name's Johnson, sir."

"Johnson? Oh, in the tin business?"

"Oh, no, I'm not _in_ business, at all, sir," was the reply.

"Not? Oh,"--thoughtfully echoes Yankee. "Wall, no matter, I thought
p'raps yeou were from up aour way--I'm from near Maoun-Peelier--State of
Varmount."

"Ah, indeed?"

"Ya-a-s."

"Fine country, I'm told?" says the old gent.

"Ye-a-a-s, 'tis;"--was the abstracted response of Yankee, who seemed to
be revolving something in his own mind.

"Raise a great deal of wool--fine sheep country?"

"'Tis great on sheep. But sheep ain't nothin' to the everlasting hog
craop!"

"Think not, eh?" said the old gent.

"I swow _teu_ pucker, if I hain't seen more hogs killed, afore
breakfast, in Cincinnatty, than would burst this buildin' clean open!"

"You don't tell me so?"

"By gravy, I deu, though. You hain't never been in Cincinnatty?"

"I said not."

"Never in a Pork-haouse?"

"Never."

"Wall, yeou've hearn tell--of Ohio, I reckon?"

"Oh, yes! got a daughter living out there," was the answer.

"Yeou don't say so?"

"I have, in Urbana, or near it," said the old gent.

"Urbanny! Great kingdom! why I know teu men living aout there; one's
trading, t'other's keepin' school; may be yeou know 'em--Sampson
Wheeler's one, Jethro Jones's t'other. Jethro's a cousin of mine; his
fa'ther, no, his _mother_ married--'tain't no matter; my name's
Small,--Appogee Small, and I was talkin'----"

"About the hog crop, Cincinnatty Pork-houses."

"Ye-a-a-s; wall, I went eout West last fall, stopped at Cincinnatty--teu
weeks. Dreadful nice place; by gravy, they do deu business there; beats
Salvation haow they go it on steamboats--bust ten a day and build six!"

"Is it possible?" says the old gent; "but the hogs----"

"Deu beat all. I went up to the Pork-haouses;--fus thing you meet is a
string--'bout a mile long, of big and little critters, greasy and sassy
as sin; buckets and bags full of scraps, tails, ears, snaouts and ribs
of hogs. Foller up this line and yeou come to the Pork-haouses, and yeou
go in, if they let yeou, and they did me, so in I went, teu an almighty
large haouse--big as all aout doors, and a feller steps up to me and
says he:--

"'Yeou're a stranger, I s'pose?'

"'Yeou deu?' says I.

"'Ye-a-a-s,' says he, 'I s'pose so,' and I up and said I was.

"'Wall,' says he, 'ef you want to go over the haouse, we'll send a
feller with you!'

"So I went with the feller, and he took me way back, daown stairs--aout
in a lot; a-a-a-nd everlastin' sin! yeou should jist seen the
hogs--couldn't caount 'em in three weeks!"

"Good gracious!" exclaims the old gent.

"Fact, by gravy! Sech squealin', kickin' and goin' on; sech cussin' and
hollerin', by the fellers pokin' 'em in at one eend of the lot and
punchin' on 'em aout at t'other! Sech a smell of hogs and fat,
_brissels_ and hot water, I swan _teu_ pucker, I never did cal'late on,
afore!

"Wall, as fast as they driv' 'em in by droves, the fellers kept a
craowdin' 'em daown towards the Pork-haouse; there two fellers kept a
shootin' on 'em daown, and a hull gang of the all-firedest dirty,
greasy-looking fellers _aout_--stuck 'em, hauled 'em daown, and afore
yeou could say Sam Patch! them hogs were yanked aout of the
lot--killed--scalded and scraped."

"Mighty quick work, I guess," says the old gent.

"Quick work? Yeou ought to see 'em. Haow many hogs deu yeou cal'late
them fellers killed and scraped a day?"

"Couldn't possibly say--hundreds, I expect."

"Hundreds! Grea-a-at King! Why, I see 'em kill thirteen hundred in teu
hours;--did, by golly!"

"Yeou don't say so?"

"Yes, _sir_. And a feller with grease enough abaout him to make a barrel
of saft soap, said that when they hurried 'em up some they killed,
scalded and scraped ten thousand hogs in a day; and when they put on the
steam, twenty thousand porkers were killed off and cut up in a single
day!"

"I want to know!"

"Yes, sir. Wall, we went into the haouse, where they scalded the
critters fast as they brought 'em in. By gravy, it was amazin' how the
_brissels_ flew! Afore a hog knew what it was all abaout, he was bare as
a punkin--a hook and tackle in his _snaout_, and up they snaked him on
to the next floor. I vow they kept a slidin' and snakin' 'em in and up
through the scuttles--jest in one stream!

"'Let's go up and see 'em cut the hogs,' says the feller.

"Up we goes. Abaout a hundred greasy fellers were a hacken on 'em up. By
golly, it was deth to particular people the way the fat and grease
_flew!_ Two _whacks_--fore and aft, as Uncle Jeems used to say--split
the hog; one whack, by a greasy feller with an everlasting chunk of
sharpened iron, and the hog was quartered--grabbed and carried off to
another block, and then a set of savagerous-lookin' chaps layed to and
cut and skirted around;--hams and shoulders were going one way, sides
and middlins another way; wall, I'm screwed if the hull room didn't
'pear to be full of flying pork--in hams, sides, scraps and greasy
fellers--rippin' and a tearin'! Daown in another place they were saltin'
and packin' away, like sin! Daown in the other place they were frying
aout the lard--fillin' barrels, from a regular river of fat, coming aout
of the everlastin' biggest bilers yeou ever did see, I vow! Now, I asked
the feller if sich hurryin' a hog through a course of spraouts helped
the pork any, and he said it didn't make any difference, he s'pected. He
said they were not hurryin' then, but if I would come in, some day, when
'steam was up,' he'd show me quick work in the pork business--knock
daown, drag aout, scrape, cut up, and have the hog in the barrel _before
he got through squealin'!_

"Hello! Say!--'Squire, gone?"

The old gent was--_gone_; the _last brick_ hit him!




German Caution


Some ten years since, an old Dutchman purchased in the vicinity of
Brooklyn, a snug little farm for nine thousand dollars. Last week, a lot
of land speculators called on him to "buy him out." On asking his price,
he said he would take "sixty tousand dollars--no less."

"And how much may remain on bond and mortgage?"

"Nine tousand dollars."

"And why not more," replied the would-be purchasers.

"Because der tam place ain't worth any more."

Ain't that Dutch.




Ben. McConachy's Great Dog Sell.


A great many dogmas have been written, and may continue to be written,
on dogs. Confessing, once, to a dogmatical regard for dogs, we "went in"
for the canine race, with a zeal we have bravely outgrown; and we live
to wonder how men--to say nothing of spinsters of an uncertain age--can
heap money and affections upon these four-legged brutes, whose sole
utility is to doze in the corner or kennel, terrify stray children,
annoy horsemen, and keep wholesome meat from the stomachs of many a
poor, starving beggar at your back gate. There is no use for dogs in the
city, and precious little _use_ for them any where else; and as _Boz_
says of oysters--you always find a preponderance of dogs where you find
the most poor people. Philadelphia's the place for dogs; in the suburbs,
especially after night, if you escape from the onslaught of the rowdies,
you will find the dogs a still greater and more atrocious nuisance. No
rowdy, or gentleman at large, in the _Quaker City_, feels _finished_,
without a lean, lank, hollow dog trotting along at their heels; while
the butchers and horse-dealers revel in a profusion of mastiffs and
dastardly curs, perfectly astounding--to us. This brings us to a short
and rather pithy story of a dog _sell_.

Some years ago, a knot of men about town, gentlemen highly "posted up"
on dogs, and who could talk _hoss_ and dog equal to a Lord Bentick, or
Hiram Woodruff, or "Acorn," or Col. Bill Porter, of the "Spirit," were
congregated in a famous resort, a place known as _Hollahan's_. A
dog-fight that afternoon, under the "Linden trees," in front of the
"State House," gave rise to a spirited debate upon the result of the
battle, and the respective merits of the two dogs. Words waxed warm, and
the disputants grew boisterously eloquent upon dogs of high and low
degree,--dogs they had read of, and dogs they had seen; and, in fact, we
much doubt, if ever before or since--this side of "Seven Dials" or St.
Giles', there was a more thorough and animated discussion, on dogs,
witnessed.

An old and rusty codger, one whose outward bruises might have led a
disciple of _Paley_ to imagine they had caused a secret enjoyment
within, sat back in the nearest corner, towards the stove, a most
attentive auditor to the thrilling debate. Between his outspread feet, a
dog was coiled up, the only indifferent individual present, apparently
unconcerned upon the subject.

"Look here," says the old codger, tossing one leg over t'other, and
taking an easy and convenient attitude of observation; "look here, boys,
you're talkin' about _dogs!_"

"Dogs?" says one of the most prominent speakers.

"Dogs," echoes the old one.

"Why, yes, daddy, we are talking about dogs."

"What do you know about _dogs?_" says a full-blown _Jakey_, looking
sharply at the old fellow.

"Know about _dogs?_"

"A' yes-s," says _Jakey_. "I bet dis five dollars, ole feller, you don't
know a Spaniel from a butcher's _cur!_"

"Well," responds the old one, transposing his legs, "may be I _don't_,
but it's _my_ 'pinion you'd make a sorry _fiste_ at best, if you had
tail and ears a little longer!"

This _sally_ amused all but the young gentleman who "run wid de
machine," and attracted general attention towards the old man, in whose
eyes and wrinkles lurked a goodly share of mother wit and shrewdness.
_Jakey_ backing down, another of the by-standers put in.

"Poppy, I expect you know what a good dog is?"

"I reckon, boys, I orter. But I'm plaguy dry listening to your dog
talk--confounded dry!"

"What'll you drink, daddy?" said half a dozen of the dog fanciers,
thinking to wet the old man's whistle to get some fun out of him.
"What'll you drink?--come up, daddy."

"Sperrets, boys, good old sperrets," and the old codger drank; then
giving his lips a wipe with the back of his hand, and drawing out a
long, deep "ah-h-h-h!" he again took his seat, observing, as he
partially aroused his ugly and cross-grained mongrel--

"Here's a _dog_, boys."

"That your dog, dad?" asked several.

"That's my dog, boys. He _is_ a dog."

"Ain't he, tho'?" jocularly responded the dog men.

"What breed, daddy, do you call that dog of yours?" asked one.

"Breed? He ain't any breed, _he_ ain't. Stand up, Barney, (jerking up
the sneaking-looking thing.) He's no breed, boys; look at him--see his
tushes; growl, Barney, growl!--Ain't them tushes, boys? He's no breed,
boys; _he's original stock!_"

"Well, so I was going to say," says one.

"That dog," says another, "must be valuable."

"Waluable?" re-echoes the old man; "he is all that, boys; I wouldn't
sell him; but, boys, I'm dry, dry as a powder horn--so much talkin'
makes one dry."

"Well, come up, poppy; what'll you take?" said the boys.

"Sperrets, boys; good old sperrets. I do like good sperrets, boys, and
that sperrets, Mister (to the ruffled-bosomed bar-keeper), o' your'n is
like my dog--_can't be beat!_"

"Well, daddy," continued the dog men, "where'd you get your dog?"

"That dog," said the old fellow, again giving his mouth a back-hander,
and his "ah-h-h!" accompaniment; "well, I'll tell you, boys, all about
it."

"Do, poppy, that's right; now, tell us all about it," they cried.

"Well, boys, 'd any you know Ben. McConachy, out here at the Risin' Sun
Tavern?"

"We've heard of him, daddy--go on," says they.

"Well, I worked for Ben. McConachy, one winter; he was a pizen mean man,
but his wife--wasn't she mean? Why, boys, she'd spread all the bread
with butter afore we sat down to breakfast; she'd begin with a quarter
pound of butter, and when she'd got through, she had twice as much
left."

"But how about the dog, daddy? Come, tell us about your _dog_."

"Well, yes, I'll tell you, boys. You see, Ben. McConachy owned this dog;
set up, Barney--look at his ears, boys--great, ain't they? Well, Ben's
wife was mean--meaner than pizen. She hated this dog; she hated any
thing that _et_; she considered any body, except her and her daughter (a
pizen ugly gal), that et three pieces of bread and two cups of coffee at
a meal, _awful!_"

"Blow the old woman; tell us about the _dog_, poppy," said they.

"Now, I'm coming to the pint--but, Lord! boys, I never was so dry in my
life. I am dry--plaguy dry," said the old one.

"Well, daddy, step up and take something; come," said the dog men; "now
let her slide. How about the _dog?_"

"Ah-h-h-h! that's great sperrets, boys. Mister (to the bar-keeper), I
don't find such sperrets as that _often_. Well, boys, as you're anxious
to hear about the dog, I'll tell you all about him. You see, the old
woman and Ben. was allers spatten 'bout one thing or t'other, and
'specially about this dog. So one day Ben. McConachy hears a feller
wanted to buy a good dog, down to the _drove yard_, and he takes
Barney--stand up, Barney--see that, boys; how quick he minds! Great dog,
he is. Well, Ben. takes Barney, and down he goes to the _drove yard_. He
met the feller; the feller looked at the dog; he saw Barney _was_ a
dog--he looked at him, asked how old he was; if that was all the dog
Ben. owned, and he seemed to like the dog--but, boys, I'm gittin'
dry--_rotted dry_--"

"Go on, tell us all about the dog, then we'll drink," says the boys.

"'Well,' says Ben. McConachy to the feller, 'now, make us an offer for
him.' Now, what do you suppose, boys, that feller's first offer was?"

The boys couldn't guess it; they guessed and guessed; some one price,
some another, all the way from five to fifty dollars--the old fellow
continuing to say "No," until they gave it up.

"Well, boys, I'll tell you--that feller, after looking and looking at
Ben. McConachy's dog, tail to snout, half an hour--_didn't offer a red
cent for him!_ Ben. come home in disgust and give the dog to me--there
he is. Now, boys, we'll have that sperrets."

But on looking around, the boys had cut the pit--_mizzled!_




The Perils of Wealth


Money is admitted to be--there is no earthly use of dodging the
fact--the lever of the whole world, by which it and its multifarious
cargo of men and matters, mountains and mole hills, wit, wisdom, weal,
woe, warfare and women, are kept in motion, in season and out of season.
It is the arbiter of our fates, our health, happiness, life and death.
Where it makes one man a happy _Christian_, it makes ten thousand
miserable _devils_. It is no use to argufy the matter, for money is the
"root of all evil," more or less, and--as Patricus Hibernicus is
supposed to have said of a single feather he reposed on--if a dollar
gives some men so much uneasiness, what must a million do? Money has
formed the basis of many a long and short story, and we only wish that
they were all imbued, as our present story is, with--more irresistible
mirth than misery. Lend us your ears.

Not long ago, one of our present well-known--or ought to be, for he is a
man of parts--business men of Boston, resided and carried on a small
"trade and dicker" in the city of Portland. By frugal care and small
profits, he had managed to save up some six hundred dollars, all in
_halves_, finding himself in possession of this vast sum of hard cash,
he began to conceive a rather insignificant notion of _small cities_;
and he concluded that Portland was hardly big enough for a man of his
pecuniary heft! In short, he began to feel the importance of his
position in the world of finance, and conceived the idea that it would
be a sheer waste of time and energy to stay in Portland, while with
_his_ capital, he could go to Boston, and spread himself among the
millionaires and hundred thousand dollar men!

"Yes," said B----, "I'll go to Boston; I'd be a fool to stay here any
longer; I'll leave for bigger timber. But what will I do with my money?
How will I invest it? Hadn't I better go and take a look around, before
I conclude to move? My wife don't know I've got this money," he
continued, as he mused over matters one evening, in his sanctum; "I'll
not tell her of it yet, but say I'm just going to Boston to see how
business is there in my line; and my money I'll put in an old cigar box,
and--"

       *       *       *       *       *

B---- was all ready with his valise and umbrella in his hand. His
"good-bye" and all that, to his wife, was uttered, and for the tenth
time he charged his better half to be careful of the fire, (he occupied
a frame house,) see that the doors were all locked at night, and "be
sure and fasten the cellar doors."

B---- had got out on to the pavement, with no time to spare to reach the
cars in season; yet he halted--ran back--opened the door, and in evident
concern, bawled out to his wife--

"Caddie!"

"Well?" she answered.

"Be sure to fasten the alley gate!"

"Ye-e-e-e-s!" responded the wife, from the interior of the house.

"And whatever you do, _don't forget them cellar doors_, Caddie!"

"Ye-e-e-e-s!" she repeated, and away went B----, lickety split, for the
Boston train.

After a general and miscellaneous survey of modern Athens, B---- found
an opening--a good one--to go into business, as he desired, upon a
liberal scale; but he found vent for the explosion of one very
hallucinating idea--his six hundred dollars, as a cash capital, was a
most infinitesimal _circumstance_, a mere "flea bite;" would do very
well for an amateur in the cake and candy, pea-nut or vegetable
business, but was hardly sufficient to create a sensation among the
monied folks of Milk street, or "bulls" and "bears" on 'change. However,
this realization was more than counter-balanced by another
fact--"confidence" was a largely developed _bump_ on the business head
of Boston, and if a man merely lacked "means," yet possessed an
abundance of good business qualifications--spirit, energy, talent and
tact--they were bound to see him through! In short, B----, the great
Portland capitalist, found things about right, and in good time, and in
the best of spirits, started for home, determining, in his own mind, to
give his wife a most pleasant surprise, in apprizing her of the fact
that she was not only the wife of a man with six hundred silver dollars,
and about to move his _institution_--but the better half of a gentleman
on the verge of a new campaign as a Boston business man.

"Lord! how Caroline's eyes will snap!" said B----; "how she'll go in;
for she's had a great desire to live in Boston these five years, but
thinks I'm in debt, and don't begin to believe I've got them six hundred
all hid away down----. But I'll surprise her!"

B---- had hardly turned his corner and got sight of his house, with his
mind fairly sizzling with the pent-up joyful tidings and grand surprise
in store for Mrs. B., when a sudden change came over the spirit of his
dream! As he gazed over the fence, by the now dim twilight of fading
day, he thought--yes, he did see fresh earthy loose stones, barrels of
lime, mortar, and an ominous display of other building and repairing
materials, strewn in the rear of his domicil! The cellar doors--those
wings of the subterranean recesses of his house--which he had cautioned,
earnestly cautioned, the "wife of his bussim" to close, carefully and
securely, were sprawling open, and indeed, the outside of his abode
looked quite dreary and haunted.

"My dear Caroline!" exclaimed B----, rushing into the rear door of his
domestic establishment, to the no small surprise of Mrs. B., who gave a
premature--

"Oh dear! how you frightened me, Fred! Got home?"

"Home? yes! don't you see I have. But, Carrie, didn't I earnestly beg of
you to keep those doors--cellar doors--shut? fastened?"

"Why, how you talk! Bless me! Keep the cellar shut? Why, there's nothing
in the cellar."

"Nothing in the cellar?" fairly howls B----.

"Nothing? Of course there is not," quietly responded the wife; "there is
nothing in the cellar; day before yesterday, our drain and Mrs. A.'s
drain got choked up; she went to the landlord about it; he sent some
men, they examined the drain, and came back to-day with their tools and
things, and went down the cellar."

"_Down the cellar?_" gasped B----, quite tragically.

"Down _the_ cellar!" slowly repeated Mrs. B.

"Give me a light--quick, give me a light, Caroline!"

"Why, don't be a fool. I brought up all the things, the potatoes, the
meat, the squashes."

"P-o-o-h! blow the meat and squashes! Give me a light!" and with a
genuine melo-drama rush, B---- seized the lamp from his wife's hand, and
down the cellar stairs he went, four steps at a lick. In a moment was
heard--

"O-o-o-h! I'm ruined!"

With a full-fledged scream, Mrs. B. dashed pell-mell down the stairs, to
her husband. He had dropped the lamp--all was dark as a coal mine.

"Fred--Frederick! oh! where are you? What have you done?" cried his
wife, in intense agony and doubt.

"Done? Oh! I'm done! yes, done now!" he heavily sighed.

"Done what? how? Tell me, Fred, are you hurt?"

"What on airth's the matter, thar? Are you committing murder on one
another?" came a voice from above stairs.

"Is that you, Mrs. A.?" asked Mrs. B. to the last speaker.

"Yes, my dear; here's a dozen neighbors; don't get skeert. Is thare
robbers in yer house? What on airth is going on?"

This brought B---- to his proper reckoning. He ordered his wife to "go
up," and he followed, and upon reaching the room, he found quite a
gathering of the neighbors. He was as white as a white-washed wall, and
the neighbors staring at him as though he was a wild Indian, or a
chained mad dog. Importuned from all sides to unravel the mystery, B----
informed them that he had merely gone down cellar to see what the
masons, &c., had been doing--dropped his lamp--his wife screamed--and
that was all about it! The wife said nothing, and the neighbors shook
their incredulous heads, and went home; which, no sooner had they gone,
than B---- seized his hat and cut stick for the office of a cunning,
far-seeing limb of the law, leaving Mrs. B. in a state of mental
agitation better imagined than described. B---- stated his case--he had
buried six hundred dollars in a box under the _lee_ of the cellar-wall,
and gone to Boston on business, and as if no other time would suit, a
parcel of drain-cleaners, and masons, and laborers, must come and go
right there and then to dig--get the six hundred dollars and clear.

After a long chase, law and bother, B---- recovered half his
money--packed up and came to Boston.--There's a case for you! Beware of
money!




Nursing a Legacy.


Waiting for dead men's shoes is a slow and not very sure business;
sometimes it pays and sometimes it don't. I know a genius who lost by
it, and his case will bear repeating, for there is both morality and fun
in it.

Lev Smith, a native of "the Eastern shore" of Maryland, and a resident
of a small town in the lower part of Delaware, began life on a very
limited capital, and because of a natural disposition indigenous to the
climate and customs of his native place--general apathy and unmitigated
_patience_ peculiar to people raised on fish and Johnny-cake, amid the
stunted pine swamps and sand-hills of that Lord-forsaken country--Lev
never increased it. Lev had an uncle, an old bachelor, without "chick or
child," and was reported to be pretty well off. Old man Gunter was
proverbially mean, and as usual, heartily despised by one half of the
people who knew him. He had a small estate, had lived long, and by his
close-fisted manner of life, it was believed that Gunter had laid by a
pretty considerable pile of the root of all evil, for something or
somebody; and one day Lev Smith, the nephew, came to the conclusion that
as the old man was getting quite shaky and must soon resign his
interests in all worldly gear, _he_ would volunteer to console the
declining years of his dear old uncle, by his own pleasant company and
encouragement, and the old man very gladly accepted the proposals of
Lev, to cut wood, dig, scratch and putter around his worn out and
dilapidated farm. Uncle Gunter had but two <DW64>s; through starvation
and long service he had worn them about out; he had little or no
"stock" upon his _farm_, quite as scant an assortment of utensils, few
fences, and in fact, to any actively disposed individual, the general
appearance and state of affairs about old Gunter's _place_ would have
given the double-breasted blues. But Lev Smith had come to loaf and
lounge, and not to display any very active or patriotic evolutions, so
he was not so much disheartened by his uncle's dilapidated farm, as he
was annoyed by the beggarly way the old man lived, and the assiduous
desire he seemed to manifest for Lev to be stirring around, gathering
chips, patching fences, cutting brush; from morn till night, he and the
two superannuated cuffies; and the old man barely raising enough to keep
soul and body of the party together.

At first, the job he had undertaken proved almost too much for Lev
Smith's constitution, but the great object in view consoled him, and the
more he saw of the old man's meanness, the more and more he took it for
granted that his uncle had necessarily hoarded up treasure; but, after
three years' drudgery, Lev's courage was on the point of breaking down;
the only stay left seemed the fact that now he had served so long a
time, so patiently and lovingly, and the old man apparently upon his
very last legs--it seemed a ruthless waste of his golden dreams to give
out, so he made up his mind to--wait a little longer. Another year
rolled on; Uncle Gunter got indeed low, and the lower he got the more
assiduous got nephew Smith, and even the neighbors wondered how a young
man _could_ stick on, and put up with such a miserly, mean, selfish and
penurious old curmudgeon as old Joe Gunter. Gunter himself was apprized
of the great indulgence and wonderful patience of his nephew, and not
unfrequently said, in a groaning voice:

"Ah, my dear Levi, you're a good boy; I wish to the Lord it was in your
poor, miserable, wretched old uncle's distressed power to--"

"Never mind, never mind, Uncle Joe," Lev would most deceitfully respond;
"I ask nothing for myself; what I do, I _do_ willingly!"

"I know, I know you do, poor boy, but your poor, old, miserable,
wretched uncle don't deserve it."

"Don't mind that, dear uncle," says Lev. "It's my duty, and I'll do it."

"Good boy, good boy; your poor, old, miserable uncle will be
grateful--we'll see."

"I know that--I feel sure he will, dear Uncle Joe--and that's enough,
_all_ I ask."

"And if he don't--poor, miserable old creature,--if he don't pay you,
the Lord will, Levi!"

"And that will be all that's needed, Uncle Joe," says the humbugging
nephew. And so they went, Lev not only waiting on the old man with the
tender and faithful care of a good Samaritan, but out of his own slender
resources ministering to the old man's especial comfort in many ways and
matters which Uncle Joe would have seen him hanged and quartered before
he would in a like manner done likewise. But the end came--the old
fellow held on toughly; he never died until Lev's patience, hope and
slender income were quite threadbare; so he at last went off the
handle--Lev buried him and mourned the dispensation in true Kilkenny
fashion.

Lev Smith now awaited the settlement of Uncle Gunter's affairs in grief
and solicitude. Another party also awaited the upshot of the matter,
with due solemnity and expectation, and that party was Polly Williams,
Lev's "intended," and her poor and miserly dad and marm, who knew Lev
Smith, as they said, was a lazy, lolloping sort of a feller, but sure to
get all that his poor, miserable uncle was worth in the world, and
therefore, with more craft and diligence, if possible, than Lev
practised, the Williamses set Polly's cap for Lev, and who, in turn, was
not unmindful of the fact that Williams "had something" too, as well as
his two children, Polly and Peter. Things seemed indeed bright and
propitious on all sides. The day came; Lev was on hand at Squire
Cornelius's, to hear the will read, and the estate of the deceased
settled.

As usual in such cases in the country, quite a number of the neighbors
were on hand--old Williams, of course.

"He was a queer old mortal," began the Squire.

"But a good man," sobbed Lev Smith, drawing out his bandanna, and
smothering his sharp nose in it. "A good man, 'Squire."

"God's his judge," responded the Squire, and a number of the neighbors
shook their head and stroked their beards, as if to say amen.

"Joseph Gunter mout have been a good man and he mout not," continued the
Squire; "some thinks he was not; I only say he was a queer old mortal,
and here's his will. Last will and testament of Joseph Gunter, &c.,
&c.," continued the Squire.

"Poor, dear old man," sobbed Lev. "Poor _dear_ old man!"

"Being without wife or children," continued the 'Squire.

"O, dear! poor, dear old man, how _I_ shall miss him in this world of
sorrow and sin," sobs Lev, while old Williams bit his skinny lips, and
the neighbors again stroked their beards.

"To comfort my declining years--"

"Poor, _dear_ old man, he was to be pitied; I did all I could do,"
groaned the disconsolate Lev, "but I didn't do half enough."

"Passing coldly and cheerless through the world--" continued the
'Squire.

"Yes, he did, poor old man; O, dear!" says Lev.

"Cared for by none, hated and shunned by all (Lev looked vacantly over
his handkerchief, at the Squire), I have made up my mind (Lev all
attention) that no mortal shall benefit by me; I have therefore
mortgaged and sold (Lev's eyes spreading) everything I had of a dollar's
value in the world, and buried the money in the earth where none but the
devil himself can find it!"

There was a general snicker and stare--all eyes on Lev, his face as
blank as a sham cartridge, while old Williams's countenance fell into a
concatenation of grimaces and wrinkles--language fails to describe!

"But here's a codicil," says the 'Squire, re-adjusting his glasses.
"Knowing my nephew, Levi Smith, expects something (Lev brightens up, old
Williams grins!)--he has hung around me for a long time, expecting it
(Lev's jaw falls), I do hereby freely forgive him his six years boarding
and lodging, and, furthermore, make him a present of my two old <DW64>s,
Ben and Dinah."

"The--the--the--cussed old screw," bawls old Williams.

"The infernal, double and twisted, mean, contemptible, miserable old
scoundrel!" cries poor Lev, foaming with virtuous indignation, and
swinging his doubled up fists.

"And you--you--you cussed, do-less, good for nothing, hypocritical
skunk, you," yells old Williams, shaking his bony fingers in poor Lev's
face, the neighbors grinning from ear to ear, "to humbug me, my wife, my
Polly, in this yer way. Now clear yourself--take them old <DW65>s, don't
leave 'em here for the crows to eat--clear yourself!"

Lev Smith sneaks off like a kill-sheep dog, leaving old Ben and Dinah to
the tender mercies of a quite miserable and equally wretched
neighborhood. Polly Williams didn't "take on" much about the matter, but
in the course of a few weeks took another venture in love's lottery,
and--was married. Poor Lev Smith returned to the scenes of his
childhood, a wiser and a poorer man.




The Troubles of a Mover.


"Mr. Flash in?"

"Mr. Flash? Don't know any such person, my son."

"Why, he lives here!" continued the boy.

"Guess not, my son; I live here."

"Well, this is the house, for I brought the things here."

"What things?" says our friend, Flannigan.

"Why, the door mat, the brooms, buckets and brushes," says little
breeches.

Flannigan looks vacantly at his own door mat, for a minute, then says
he--

"Come in my man, I'll see if any such articles have come here, for us."

The boy walks into the hall, amid the barricades of yet unplaced
household effects--for Flannigan had just moved in--and Flannigan calls
for Mrs. F. The lady appears and denies all knowledge of any such
purchases, or reception of buckets, brooms, and little breeches clears
out.

In the course of an hour, a violent jerk at the bell announces another
customer. Flannigan being at work in the parlor, answers the call; he
opens the door, and there stands "a greasy citizen."

"Goo' mornin'. Mr. Flash in?"

"Mr. Flash? I don't know him, sir."

"You don't?" says the "greasy citizen." "He lives here, got this bill
agin him, thirty-four dollars, ten cents, per-visions."

"I live here, sir; my name's Flannigan, I don't know you, or owe you, of
course!"

"Well, that's a pooty spot o' work, _any how_;" growls our greasy
citizen, crumpling up his bill. "Where's Flash?"

"I can't possibly say," says Flannigan.

"You can't?"

"Certainly not."

"Don't know where he's gone to?" growls the butcher.

"No more than the man in the moon!"

"Well, he ain't goin' to dodge _me_, in no sich a way," says the
butcher. "I'll find him, if it costs me a bullock, you may tell him
so!--for _me!_" growls the butcher.

"Tell him yourself, sir; I've nothing to do with the fellow, don't know
him from Adam, as I've already told _you_," says Flannigan, closing the
door--the "greasy citizen" walking down the steps muttering thoughts
that breathe and words that burn!

Flannigan had just elevated himself upon the top of the centre table, to
hang up Mrs. F.'s portrait upon the parlor wall, when another ring was
heard of the bell. He called to his little daughter to open the door and
see what was wanted.

"Is your fadder in, ah?"

"Yes, sir, I'll call him," says the child, but before she could reach
the parlor, a burly Dutch baker marches in.

"Goot mornin', I bro't de _pills_ in."

"Pills?" says Flannigan.

"Yaw, for de prets," continues the baker; "nine tollars foof'ey cents. I
vos heert you was movin', so I tink maybees you was run away."

"Mistake, sir, I don't owe you a cent; never bought bread of you!"

"_Vaw's!_ Tonner a' blitzen!--don't owes me!"

"Not a cent!" says Flannigan, standing--hammer in hand, upon the top of
the table.

"_Vaw's!_ you goin' thrun away and sheet me, _ah_?"

"Look here, my friend, you are under a mistake. I've just moved in
here, my name's Flannigan, you never saw me before, and of course I
never dealt with you!--don't you see?"

"Tonner a' blitzen!" cries the enraged baker, "I see vat you vant, to
sheet me out mine preet, you raskills--I go fetch the con-stabl's, de
shudge, de sher'ffs, and I have mine mon-ney in mine hands!" and off
rushes the enraged man of dough, upsetting the various small articles
piled up on the bureau in the hall--by _wanging_ to the door.

Poor Flannigan felt quite "put out;" he came very near dashing his
hammer at the Dutchman's head, but hoping there was an end to the
annoyances he kept at work, until another ring of the bell announced
another call. The Irish girl went to the door; Flannigan listens--

"Mr. Flash in?"

"Yees!" says Biddy, supposing Flash and Flannigan was the same in Dutch.
"Would yees come in, sir," and in comes the young man.

"Good morning, sir," quoth he; "I've called as you requested sir, with
the bill of that china set, &c."

"Mistake, sir--I've bought no china set, lately," says Flannigan.

"Isn't your name Flash, sir!"

"No, sir, my name's _Flannigan_. I've just moved here."

"Indeed," says the clerk. "Well, sir, where has Flash gone to, do you
know."

"Gone to be hanged! I trust, for I've been bothered all this morning by
persons that scoundrel appears to owe. He moved out of here, day before
yesterday; I took his unexpired term of the lease of this dwelling,
having noticed it advertised, gave the fellow a bonus for his lease, and
he cleared for California, I believe."

This concise statement appeared to satisfy the clerk that his "firm" was
_done_, and the young man and _his_ bill stepped out. Another _ring_,
and Flannigan opens the door; two men wanted to see Mr. Flash; he had
been buying some tin-ware of one, and the other he owed for putting up a
fire range in the building, and which range and accoutrements poor
Flannigan had bought for twenty-five dollars, cash down! These gentlemen
felt very vindictive, of course, and hinted awful strong that Flannigan
was privy to Flash's movements; and a great deal more, until Flannigan
losing his patience, and then his temper, ordered the men to
vamose!--they did, giving poor Flannigan a "good blessing" as they
walked away!

The family was about to sit down to a "made-up dinner" in the back
parlor, when the bell rang; the Irish girl answered the call, and
returned with a bill of sundry groceries, handed in by a man at the
door.

"Tell him Mr. Flash has gone--left--don't know him, and don't want to
know him, or have any thing to do with him or his bill!"

The girl carried back the bill; presently Flannigan hears a _muss_ in
the hall, he gets up and goes out; there was Biddy and the grocer's man
in a high dispute. Biddy--"true to her instinct," had made a bull of her
message by telling the man her master didn't know him; go to the divil
wid his bill! Flannigan managed to pacify the man, and give him to
understand that Mr. Flash was gone to parts unknown, and--the grocer, in
common with bakers, butchers, tinners and china dealers--were _done!_

But now came the tug of war; two "<DW52> ladies" made their appearance,
for a small bill of seven dollars, for washing and ironing the dickeys
and fine linen of the Flashes.

"An' de fac _am_," says the one, "we's bound to hab de money, _shuah!_"

It did not seem to _take_ when Flannigan informed his  friends
that they were surely _done_, as their debtor had "cut his lucky" and
gone!

The <DW54>s felt inclined to be _sassy_, and Flannigan closed the door,
ordering them to create a vacancy by clearing out, and just as he closed
the door, ring goes the bell!

"Be gor," says a brawny "adopted citizen," planting his brogan upon the
sill, as Flannigan opened the door--"I've come wid me _coz_-zin to git
her wages, ye's owin' her!"

"Me? Owe you?" cries poor Flannigan.

"_Igh!_" says Paddy, trying to push his way into the hall.

"Stand back, you scoundrel!" cries Flannigan.

"_Scoun-thril!_" roars the outraged "adopted citizen."

"Stand back, you infernal ruffian!" exclaims Flannigan, as Paddy makes a
rush to grab him.

"Give me me coz-zin's wages, ye--ye--" but here his oration drew towards
a close, for Flannigan, no longer able to recognise virtue in
forbearance, opened the door and planting his own huge fist between the
_ogle-factories_ of Paddy, knocked him as stiff as a bull beef! Falling,
Paddy carried away his red-faced burly coz-zin, and the twain tumbling
upon the two <DW64> women who were still at the bottom of the steps,
dilating, to any number of lookers-on, upon the rascality of poor
Flannigan in gouging them out of their washing bill, down went the white
spirits and black, all in a lump.

Here was a row! A mob gathered; "the people in that house" were
denounced in all manner of ways, the <DW64>s screamed, the Irish roared,
the Dutch baker came up with a police-man to arrest Flannigan for
stealing his bread! And soon the butcher arrived with another officer to
seize the goods of Flash, supposed to be in the house--ready to be taken
away!

Such a double and twisted uproar in Dutch, Irish, Ethiopian and natural
Yankee, was terrific!

Mrs. F. fainted, the children screamed, and poor Flannigan was carried
to the police office to answer half a cord of "charges," and reached
home near sundown, quite exhausted, and his wallet bled for "costs,"
fines, &c., some $20. Poor Flannigan moved again; the house had such a
"bad name," he couldn't stay in it.




The Question Settled.


"Doctor" Gumbo, who "does business" somewhere along shore, met "Prof."
_White_,--a gemman, whose complexion is four shades darker than the
famed ace of spades,--a few evenings since, in front of the _Blade_
office, and after the usual formalities of greeting, says the doctor--

"What you tink, sah, oh dat Lobes question, what dey's makin' sich a
debbil ob a talk about in de papers?"

"Well," dignifiedly answered the professor of polish-on boots, "it's my
'ticular opinion, sah, dat dat Lopes got into de wrong pew, brudder
Gumbo, when he went down to Cuber for his healf!"

"Pshaw! sah, I'se talkin' about de gwynna (guano) question, I is."

"Well, doctor," said the professor, "I'se not posted up on de goanna
question, no how; but, when you comes to de Cuber, or de best mode ob
applyin' de principle ob liquid blackin' to de rale fuss-rate calfskin,
_I'se dar!_"

"O! oh!" grunts Gumbo; "professor, you'se great on de natural principles
ob de chemical skyence, I see; but lord honey, I doos pity your
ignorance on jography questions. So, take care ob yourself, ole
<DW65>--yaw! yaw!" and they parted with the formality of two Websters,
and half a dozen common-sized dignitaries of the nation thrown in.




How it's Done at the Astor House.


People often wonder how a man can manage to drink up his salary in
liquor, provided it is sufficient to buy a gallon of the very best
ardent every day in the year. How a fortune can be drank up, or drank
down, by the possessor, is still a greater poser to the unsophisticated.
Now, to be sure, a man who confines himself, in his potations, to
fourpenny drinks of small beer, Columbian whiskey, or even that
detestable stuff, by courtesy or custom called _French brandy_,--which,
in fact, is generally aquafortis, corrosive sublimate, cochineal,
logwood, and whiskey,--and don't happen to know too many drouthy
cronies, may make a very long lane of it; but it's the easiest thing in
the world to swallow a snug salary, income, mortgages, live stock, and
real estate, when you know how it's done.

Managing a theatre, publishing a newspaper, or keeping trained dogs or
trotting horses, don't hardly begin to phlebotomize purse and
reputation, like drinking.

"Doctor," said a gay Southern blood, to a famed "tooth doctor," "look
into my mouth."

"I can't see any thing there, sir," says the tooth puller.

"Can't? Well, that's deuced strange. Why, sir, look again; you see
nothing!"

"Nothing, sir!"

"Why, sir," says the young planter, "it's most astonishing, for I've
just finished swallowing--_three hundred <DW64>s and two cotton
plantations!_"

Four young bucks met, some years ago, in a fashionable drinking saloon
in Cincinnati. It was one of the most elegant drinking establishments in
that part of the country. The young chaps belonged over in
Kentucky--daddies rich, and they didn't care a snap! says they, let's
have a spree! The "sham" came in, and they went at it; giving that a
fair trial, they took a turn at sherry, hock, and a sample of all the
most expensive stuffs the proprietors had on hand. Getting fuddled, they
got uproarious; they kicked over the tables and knocked down the
waiters. The landlord, not exactly appreciating that sort of "going on,"
remonstrated, and was met by an array of pistols and knives. Mad and
furious, the young chaps made a general onslaught on the people present,
who "dug out" very quick, leaving the bacchanalians to their glory;
whereupon, they fell to and fired their pistols into the mirrors,
paintings, chandeliers, &c. Of course the watchmen came in, about the
time the young gentlemen finished their youthful indiscretions, and
after the usual battering and banging of the now almost inanimate bodies
of the quartette, landed them in the calaboose. Next day they settled
their bills, and it cost them about $2200! It was rather an expensive
lesson, but it's altogether probable that they haven't forgotten a
letter of it yet.

A small party of country merchants, traders, &c., were cruising around
New York, one evening, seeing the lions, and their cicerone,--by the
way, a "native" who knew what _was_ what,--took them up Broadway, and as
they passed the Astor House, says one of the strangers:

"Smith, what's this thunderin' big house?"

"O, ah, yes, this," says the cicerone, Smith, "_this_, boys, is a great
tavern, fine place to get a drink."

"Well, be hooky, let's all go in."

In they all went; taking a private room or small side parlor, the
country gents requested Smith to do the talking and order in the liquor.
Smith called for a bill of fare, upon which are "invoiced" more "sorts"
and harder named wines and _liquors_ than could be committed to memory
in a week.

"That's it," says Smith, marking a bill of fare, and handing it to the
servant, "that's it--two bottles, bring 'em up."

Up came the wine; it was, of course, elegant. The country gents froze to
it. They had never tasted such stuff before, in all their born days!

"Look a here, mister," says one of the "business men," "got eny more uv
that wine?"

"O, yes, sir!" says the servant.

"Well, fetch it in."

"Two bottles, sir?"

"Two ganders! No, bring in six bottles!--I can go two on 'em myself,"
says the country gent.

The servant delivered his message at the bar, and after a few grimaces
and whispering, the servant and one of the bar-keepers, or clerks,
carried up the wine. Says the clerk, whispering to Smith, whom he
slightly knew:

"Smith, do you know the price of this wine?"

"Certainly I do," says Smith; "here it's invoiced on the catalogue,
ain't it?"

"O, very well," says the clerk, about to withdraw.

"Hold on!" says one of the merry country gents, "don't snake your
handsome countenance off so quick; do yer want us to fork rite up fur
these drinks?" hauling out his wallet.

"No, yer don't," says another, hauling out his change.

"My treat, if you please, boys," says the third, pulling out a handful
of small change. "I asked the party in, an' I pay for what licker we
drink--be thunder!"

In the midst of their enthusiasm, the clerk observed it was of no
importance just then--the bill would be presented when they got through.
This was satisfactory, and the party went on finishing their wine,
smoking, &c.

"S'pose we have some rale sham-paigne, boys?" says one of the gents,
beginning to feel his oats, some!

"Agreed!" says the rest. Two bottles of the best "_sham_" in "the
tavern" were called for, and which the party drank with great gusto.

"Now," says one of them, "let's go to the the-ater, or some other place
where there's a show goin' on. Here, you, mister,"--to the servant,--"go
fetch in the landlord."

"The landlord, sur?" says Pat, the servant, in some doubts as to the
meaning of the phrase.

"Ay, landlord--or that chap that was in here just now; tell him to fetch
in the bill. Ah, here you are, old feller; well, what's the damages?"
asks the gent, so ambitious of putting the party through, and hauling
out a handful of keys, silver and coppers, to do it with.

"Eight bottles of that old flim-flam-di-rip-rap," pronouncing one of
those fancy gamboge titles found upon an Astor House catalogue,
"_ninety-six dollars--_"

"What?" gasped the country gent, gathering up his small change, that he
had began to sort out on the table.

"And two bottles of 'Shreider,' and cigars--seven dollars," coolly
continued the bar-clerk; "one hundred and three dollars."

"_A hundred and three thunder--_"

"A HUNDRED AND THREE DOLLARS!" cried the country gents, in one breath,
all starting to their feet, and putting on their hats.

The clerk explained it, clear as mud; the trio "spudged up" the amount,
looked very sober, and walked out.

"Come, boys," said Smith, "let's go to the theatre."

"Guess not," says "the boys." "B'lieve we'll go home for to-night, Mr.
Smith." And they made for their lodgings.

If those country gents were asked, when they got home, any particulars
about the "elephant," they'd probably hint something about getting a
glimpse of him at the Astor House.




The Advertisement.


Sit down for a moment, we will not detain you long, our story will
interest you, we are sure, for it is most commendable, brief,
and--singularly true.

A poor widow, in the city of Philadelphia, was the mother of three
pretty children, orphans of a ship-builder, who lost his life in the
corvette Kensington, a naval vessel, built in Kensington for one of the
South American republics, and launched in 1826. The South Americans
being short of funds, the Kensington, after years of delay, was sold to
the emperor of all the Russias, and sailed for Constradt in 1830. Some
forty of the carpenters, who had built the vessel, went out in her; she
had immense, but symmetrical spars--carried vast clouds of canvass--was
caught off Cape Henlopen in a squall--her spars came thundering to the
deck, and poor Glenn, the ship builder, was among the slain.

The widow was allowed but a brief time to mourn for the departed;
pinching poverty was at her door; upon her own exertions now devolved
the care and toil of rearing her three children. Cynthia, the eldest,
was a pretty brunette, of thirteen; the neighbors thought Cynthia could
"go out to work;" the next eldest, Martin, a fine, sturdy and
intelligent boy, could go to a trade; and the youngest, Rosa, one of the
most beautiful, blue-eyed, blonde little girls of seven years, poetical
fancy ever realized, "the neighbors thought," ought to be _given_ to
somebody, to raise. The mother was but a feeble woman; it would be a
task for her to obtain her own living, they thought; and so, kind,
generous souls, with that peculiar readiness with which disinterested
friends console or advise the unfortunate, "the neighbors" became very
eloquent and argumentative. But though the mother's hands were weak, her
heart was strong, and her love for her children still stronger.

It is rather a singular trait in the human character, it appears to us,
that people possessing the ordinary attributes of sane Christians,
should so readily advise others to attempt, or do, that from which
_they_ would instinctively recoil; the mass of Widow Glenn's advisers
might have been far more serviceable to her, by contributing their mites
towards preserving the unity of her little and precious family, than
thus savagely advising its disbanding.

Newspapers, at this day, were far less numerous very expensive, and
circulated to a very limited degree, indeed. But the widow took a paper,
a family, weekly journal; and while casting her vacant eye over the
columns, at the close of a Saturday eve, after a severe week's toil for
the bread her little and precious ones had eaten, the widow's attention
was called to an advertisement, as follows:

     "A Housekeeper Wanted.--An elderly gentleman desires a middle-aged,
     pleasantly-disposed, tidy and industrious American woman, to take
     charge and conduct the domestic affairs of his household. A
     reasonable compensation allowed. Good reference required, _the
     applicant to have no incumbrances_. Apply at this office, for the
     address, &c."

The eager smile, that seemed to warm the wan features of the widow, as
she glanced over the advertisement, was dimmed and darkened, as the
shining river of summer is shadowed by the heavy passing cloud, when she
came to the chilling words--_the applicant to have no incumbrances_.

"No incumbrances," moaned the widow, "shall none but God deign to smile
or have mercy on the helpless orphans; are they to be feared, shunned,
hated, because helpless? Must they perish--die with me
alone--struggling against our woes, poverty, wretchedness? No! I know
there is a God, he is good, powerful, merciful; he will turn the hearts
of some towards the widow and the orphan; and though basilisk-like words
warn me to hope not, I will apply--I will attempt to win attention,
work, slave, toil, toil, toil, until my poor hands shall wear to the
bone, and my eyes no longer do their office--if he will only have mercy,
pity for my poor, poor orphans--God bless them!" and in melting
tenderness and emotion, the poor woman dropped her face upon her lap and
wept--her tears were the showers of hope, to the almost parched soil of
her heart, and as the gentle dews of heaven fall to the earth, so fell
the widow's tears in balmy freshness upon her visions of a brighter
something--in the future.

It was yet early in the evening; her children slept; the poor woman put
on her bonnet and shawl, and started at once for the office of the
_news_paper. The publisher was just closing his sanctum, but he gave the
information the widow required, and favorably impressed with Mrs.
Glenn's appearance and manner, the publisher, a quaker, interrogated her
on various points of her present condition, prospects, &c.; and
observed, that but for her children, he had no doubt of the widow's
suiting the old man exactly.

"But thee must not be neglected, or discarded from honest industry,
because of thy responsibilities, which God hath given thee," said the
quaker. "If thy lad is stout of his age, and a good boy, I will provide
for him; he may learn our business, and be off thy charge, and thee may
be enabled to keep thy two female children about thee."

On the following Monday, the widow signified her intention of writing a
few lines as an applicant for the situation of housekeeper, and
afterwards to consult with the publisher in regard to her boy, Martin,
and then bidding the courteous quaker farewell, she sought her humble
domicil, with a much lighter heart than she had lately carried from her
distressed and lonely home.

In an ancient part of the Quaker city, facing the broad and beautiful
Delaware river, stood a venerable mansion; but few of this class now
remain in Philadelphia, and the one of which we now speak, but recently
passed away, in the great conflagration that visited the city in 1850.
In this substantial and stately brick edifice, lived one of the wealthy
and retired ship brokers of Quakerdom. He was very wealthy, very
eccentric, very good-hearted, but passionate, plethoric, gouty, and
seventy years of age. Mr. Job Carson had lived long and seen much; he
had been so engrossed in clearing his fortune, that from twenty-five to
forty, he had not bethought him of that almost indispensable appendage
to a man's comfort in this world--a wife. He was the next ten years
considering the matter over, and then, having built and furnished
himself a costly mansion, which he peopled with servants, headed by a
maiden sister as housekeeper, Job thought, upon the whole--to which his
sister added her strong consent--that matrimony would greatly increase
his cares, and perhaps add more _noise_ and confusion to his household,
than it might counterbalance or offset by probable comfort in "wedded
happiness," so temptingly set forth to old bachelors.

"No," said Job, at fifty, "I'll not marry, not trade off my single
blessedness yet; at least, there's time enough, there's women enough;
I'm young, hale, hearty, in the prime of life; no, I'll not give up the
ship to woman yet."

Another ten years rolled along, and the thing turned up in the retired
merchant's mind again--he was now sixty, and one, at least, of the
objections to his entering the wedded state, removed--for a man at sixty
is scarcely too young to marry, surely.

"Ah, it's all up," quoth Job Carson. "I'm spoiled now. I've had my own
way so long, I could not think of surrendering to petticoats, turning
my house into a nursery, and turning my back on the joys, quiet and
comforts of bachelorhood. No, no, Job Carson--matrimony be hanged.
You'll none of it." And so ten years more passed--now age and luxury do
their work.

"O, that infernal twinge in my toe. _O_, there it is again--hang the
goat, it can't be gout. Dr. Bleedem swears I'm getting the gout.
Blockhead--none of my kith or kin ever had such an infernal complaint.
O, ah-h-h, that infernal window must be sand-bagged, given me this pain
in the back, and--Banquo! Where the deuce is that <DW65>--Banquo-o-o!"

"Yis, massa, here I is," said a good-natured, fat, black and
sleek-looking old darkey, poking his shining, grinning face into the old
gentleman's study, sitting, playing or smoking room.

"Here you are? Where? You black sarpint, come here; go to Jackplane, the
carpenter, and tell him to come here and make my sashes tight, d'ye
hear?"

"Yis, massa, dem's 'em; I'se off."

"No, you ain't--come here, Banquo, you woolly son of Congo, you; go open
my liquor case, bring the brandy and some cool water. There, now clear
yourself."

"Yis, massa, I'se gone, dis time--"

"No, you ain't, come back; go to old Joe Winepipes, and tell him I send
my compliments to him, and if he wants to continue that game of chess,
let him come over this afternoon, d'ye hear?"

"Yis, massa, dem's 'em, I'se gone dis time--_shuah!_"

"Well, away with you."

Old Job Carson was yet a rugged looking old gentleman. He had survived
nearly all his "blood, kith and kin;" his sister had paid the last debt
of nature some months before, and in hopes of finding some one to fill
her station, in his domestic concerns, his advertisement had appeared
in the _Weekly Bulletin_.

"Ah, me, it's no use crying about spilt milk," sighed the old gent over
his glass. "I suppose I've been a fool; out-lived everybody, everything
useful to me. Made a fortune _first_, nobody to spend it _last_. Yes,
yes," continued the old man, in a thoughtful strain, "old Job Carson
will soon slip off the handle; 'poor old devil,' some bloodsucker may
say, as he grabs Job's worldly effects, 'he's gone, had a hard scrabble
to get together these things, and now, we'll pick his bones.' Well, let
'em, let 'em; serves me right; ought to have known it before, but blast
and rot 'em, if they only enjoy the pillage as much as I did the
struggles to keep it together, why, a--it will be about an even thing
with us, after all."

"Yis, massa, here I is," chuckled Banquo, again putting his black bullet
pate in at the door.

"You are, eh? Well, clear yourself--no, come back; go down to Oatmeal's
store, and tell him to let old Mrs. Dougherty, and the old blind man,
and the sailor's wife, and--and--the rest of them, have their groceries,
again, this week--only another week, mind, for I'm not going to support
the whole neighborhood any longer--tell him so."

"Yis, massa, I'se gone."

"Wait, come here, Banquo; well, never mind--clear out."

But Banquo returned in a moment, saying:

"Dar's a lady at the doo-ah, sah; says she wants to see you, sah, 'bout
'ticlar business, sah."

"Is, eh? Well, call her into the parlor, I'll be down--ah-h, that
infernal _twinge_ again, ah-h-h-h, ah-h! What a stupid ass a man is to
hang around in this world until he's a nuisance to himself and every
body else!" grunted old Job, as he groped his way down stairs, and into
the parlor.

"Good morning, ma'am," said he, as he confronted the widow, who, in
the utmost taste of simple neatness, had arranged her spare dress, to
meet the umpire of her future fate.

Mrs. Glenn respectfully acknowledged the salutation, and at once opened
her business to the bluff old man.

"Yes, yes; I'm a poor, unfortunate creature, ma'am; I'm nothing, nobody,
any more. I want somebody to see that I'm not robbed, or poisoned, and
that I may have a bed to lie upon, and a clean piece of linen to my back
occasionally, and a--that's all I want, ma'am."

The widow feigned to hope she knew the duties of a housekeeper, and
situated as she was, it was a labor of love to work--toil, for those
misfortune had placed in her charge.

"Eh? what's that--haven't got _incumbrances_, have you, ma'am?"

"I have three children, sir," meekly said the widow.

"Three children?" gruffly responded the old gentleman; "ah, umph, what
business have you, ma'am, with three children?"

[Illustration: "Three children?" gruffly responded the old gentleman.
"Ah, umph, what business have you, ma'am, with three
children?"--_Page_ 393.]

The widow, not apparently able to answer such a poser, the old gentleman
continued:

"Poor widows, poor people of any kind, have no business with
_incumbrances_, ma'am; no excuse at all, ma'am, for 'em."

"So, alas!" said Mrs. Glenn, "I find the world too--too much inclined to
reason; but I shall trust to the mercy and providence of the Lord, if
denied the kind feelings of mortals."

"Ah, yes, yes, that's it, ma'am; it's all very fine, ma'am; but too many
poor, foolish creatures get themselves in a scrape, then depend upon the
Lord to help 'em out. This shifting the responsibility to the shoulders
of the Lord isn't right. I don't wonder the Lord shuts his ears to half
he's asked to do, ma'am."

"Well, sir, I thought I would _call_, though I feared my children would
be an objection to--"

"Yes, yes,--I don't want incumbrances, ma'am."

"But I--I a--"--the widow's heart was too full for utterance; she moved
towards the door. "Good morning, sir."

"Stop, come back, ma'am, sit down; it's a pity--you've no business,
ma'am, as I said before, to have incumbrances, when you haven't got any
visible means of support. Now, if you only had one, one incumbrance--and
that you'd no business to have"--said the old gent, doggedly, tapping an
antique tortoise-shell snuff box, and applying "the pungent grains of
titillating dust," as Pope observes, to his proboscis, "if you had only
_one_ incumbrance--but you've got a house full, ma'am."

"No, sir, only three!" answered widow Glenn.

"Three, only three? God bless me, ma'am, I wouldn't be a poor woman with
two--no, with one incumbrance at my petticoat tails--for the biggest
ship and cargo old Steve Girard ever owned, ma'am."

"I might," meekly said the widow, "put my son with the printer, sir; he
has offered to take my poor boy."

"Two girls and a boy?" inquiringly asked the old gent, applying the
dust, and manipulating his box. "How old? Eldest thirteen, eh?--boy
eleven, and the youngest seven, eh?" and working a traverse, or solving
some problematic point, Job Carson stuck his hands under his morning
gown, and strode over the floor; after a few evolutions of the kind, he
stopped--fumbled in a drawer of a secretary, and placing a ten dollar
note in the widow's hand, he said:

"There, ma'am; I don't know that I shall want you, but to-morrow
morning, if you have time, from other and more important business, call
in, bring your children with you; good morning, ma'am--Banquo!"

"Yis, sah; I'se heah."

"Show the lady out--good morning, ma'am, good morning."

"I like that woman's looks," said old Job, continuing his walk; "she's
plain and tidy; she's industrious, I'll warrant; if she only hadn't that
raft of _incumbrances_; what do these people have incumbrances for,
anyway?--"

"Lady at the doo-ah, sah," said Banquo.

"Show her in. Good morning, ma'am; Banquo, a seat for the lady; yes,
ma'am, I did; I want a housekeeper. I advertised for one. How many
servants do I keep? Well, ma'am, I keep as many as I want. Have
visitors? Of course I have. What and where are _my rooms_? Why, madam, I
own the house, every brick and lath in it. I go to bed, and get up, and
go round; come in and out, when I feel like it. What church do I worship
in? I've assisted in _building_ a number, own a half of one, and a third
of several; but, ma'am, between you and I--I don't want to be rude to a
lady, ma'am, but I _do_ think, this examination ain't to my liking--you
don't think the place would suit you, eh? Well, I think _your ladyship_
wouldn't suit _me_, ma'am, so I'll bid your ladyship good morning," said
old Job, bowing very obsequiously to the stiff-starched and acrimonious
dame, who, returning the old gentleman's _bow_ with the same "high
pressure" order, seized her skirts in one hand, and agitating her fan
with the other, she stepped out, or _finikined_ along to the hall door,
and as Banquo flew around, and put on the _extras_ to let her ladyship
out, she gave the darkey a pat on the head with her fan, and looking
crab-apples at the poor <DW64>, she rushed down the steps and
disappeared.

"Tank you, ma'am; come again, eb you please--of'n!" said the pouting
<DW64>.

"Yes, sah; here's nudder lady, sah," says Banquo, ushering in a rather
ruddy, jolly-looking and perfectly-at-home daughter of the "gim o' the
sae." The old gentleman eyed her liberal proportions; consulting his
snuff-box, he answered "yes" to the woman's inquiry, if _he_ was the
gintleman wanting the housekeeper.

"Did you read my advertisement, ma'am?"

"Me rade it? Not I, faix. Mr. Mullony, our landlord, was saying till
us--"

"Are you married, too?"

"Married _two_? Do I look like a woman as would marry two? No, _sur_;
I'm a dacent woman, sur; my name is Hannah Geaughey, Jimmy Geaughey's my
husband, sur; he, poor man, wrought in the board-yard till he was _sun
sthruck_, by manes of falling from a cuart, sur."

"Well, ma'am, that will do, I'm sorry for your husband--one dollar,
there it is; you wouldn't suit me at all; good morning, ma'am. Banquo,
show the good woman to the door."

"But, sur, I want the place!"

"I don't want _you_--good morning."

"Dis way, ma'am," said Banquo, marshalling the woman to the hall.

"Stand away, ye nager; it's your masther I'm spakin' wid."

"Go along, go along, woman, go, go, _go!_" roared the old gent.

"But, as I was saying, Mr. Mullony said--says he--who the divil you
push'n, you black nager?" said the woman, grabbing Banquo's woolly
top-knot.

"Dis way, ma'am," persevered Banquo, quartering towards the door.

"Mr. Mullony was sayin', sur--"

"Dis way, ma'am," continued the darkey, crowding Mrs. Geaughey, while
his master was gesticulating furiously to keep on _crowding_ her.
Finally, Banquo vanquished the Irish woman, and received orders from his
master to admit no more applicants--the place was filled.

That afternoon, old Captain Winepipes--a retired merchant and
ship-master, an old bachelor, too, who was in the habit of exchanging
visits with Job Carson, sipping brandy and water, talking over old times
and playing chess--came to finish a litigated game, and Job and he
discussed the matter of taking care of the widow and children of the
dead ship-builder. At length, it was settled that, if the second
interview with the widow, and an exhibition of her children, proved
satisfactory to Job Carson, he should take them in; if found more than
Job could attend to--

"Why a--I'll go you halves, Job," said Captain Winepipes.

Next day, Widow Glenn and her pretty children appeared at the door of
Carson's mansion; and Banquo, full of pleasant anticipations, ushered
them into the retired merchant's presence.

It was evident, at the first glance the old gentleman gave the group,
that the battle was more than half won.

"Fine boy, that; come here, sir--eleven years of age, eh? Your name's
Martin--Martin Glenn, eh? Well, Martin, my lad, you've got a big world
before you--a fussing, fuming world, not worth finding out, not worth
the powder that would blow it up. You've got to take your position in
the ranks, too, mean and contemptible as they are; but you may make a
good man; if the world don't benefit you, why a--you can benefit it;
that's the way I've done--been obliged to do it, ain't sorry for it,
neither," said the old man, with evident emotion.

"Your name is Cynthia, eh? And you are a fine grown girl for your age,
surely. Cynthia, you'll soon be capable of 'keeping house,' too; you've
got a world before you, too, my dear; a wicked, scandalous world; a
world full of deceit and _misery_--look at your mother, look at me! Ah,
well, it's all our own fault; yours, madam, for having these--these
_incumbrances_, and mine, poor devil--for not having 'em. Cynthia,
you're a fine girl; a good girl, I know. Ah, here's mamma's pet, I
suppose; Rose Glenn, very pretty name, pretty girl, too, very pretty.
Lips and cheeks like cherries, eyes brighter than Brazil diamonds.
Ma'am, you've got great treasures here; a man must be a stupid ass to
call these _incumbrances_. They are jewels of inestimable value. What's
my filthy bank accounts, dollars and cents, houses, goods and chattels,
that fire may destroy, and thieves steal--to these blessings that--that
God has given the lone widow to strengthen her--cheer her in the dark
path of life? God is great, generous, and just; I see it now, plainer
than I ever did before. Banquo!"

"Yis'r, I'se here, massa."

"Go tell Counsellor Prime to call on me immediately; tell Captain
Winepipes to come over--I want to see him. I'm going to make a fool of
myself, I believe."

"Yes, sah, I'se gone; gorry, I guess dere's suffin gwoin to happen to
dat lady and dem chil'ns--shuah!" said Banquo, rushing out of the house.

The fate of the ship-builder's family was fixed. Job Carson
proposed--and the widow, of course, consented--that Martin Glenn should
become the adopted son of the old gentleman, Job Carson; and that he
should choose a trade or profession, which he should then, or later,
learn, making the old gentleman's house as much his home as
circumstances would permit; the two girls were to remain under the same
roof with the mother, who was at once installed as housekeeper for the
bluff and generous old gentleman.

Old Captain Winepipes insisted on a share in the settlement, to wit:
that both girls should be educated at his expense, which was finally
acceded to, adding, that in case he--Captain Joseph Winepipes--should
live to see Rose Glenn a bride, he should provide for her wedding, and
give her a dowry.

"Set that down in black and white, Mr. Prime," said Job, "and that I,
Job Carson, do agree, should I live to see Cynthia Glenn a wife, to give
her a comfortable start in the world--set that down, for I will do it,
yes, I will," said the old gent, with an emphatic rap on his snuff-box.

       *       *       *       *       *

Ten years passed away; Captain Winepipes has paid the debt of nature; he
did not live to see Rose Glenn a wife; but, nevertheless, he left a
clause in his will, that fully carried out his expressed intentions when
Rose did marry, some two years after she arrived at the age of sweet
seventeen. Martin Glenn Carson graduated in the printing office, and
very recently filled one of the most important stations in the judiciary
of Illinois, as well as a chivalrous part in the recent war with Mexico.
Cynthia was wedded to a well known member of the Philadelphia bar, an
event that Job Carson barely lived to see, and, as he agreed to, donated
a sum, quite munificent, towards making things agreeable in the progress
of her married life. Widow Glenn remained a faithful servant and friend
to the old merchant, and, upon his death, she became heir to the family
mansion, and means to keep it up at the usual bountiful rate. Large
bequests were made in Job Carson's will, to charitable institutes, but
the bulk of his fortune fell to his adopted son, Martin, who proved not
unworthy of his good fortune. Banquo ended his days in the service of
the widow, who had cause for and took pleasure in blessing the vehicle
that conveyed to herself and orphans their rare good fortune, in guise
of a NEWSPAPER ADVERTISEMENT.




Incidents in a Fortune-Hunter's Life.


We do not now recollect what philosopher it was who said, "it's no
disgrace to be poor, but it's often confoundedly unhandy!" But, we have
little or no sympathy for poor folks, who, ashamed of their poverty,
make as many and tortuous writhings to escape its inconveniences, as
though it was "against the law" to be poor. It is the cause of
incalculable human misery, to _seem_ what we are _not_; to appear beyond
_want_--yea, even in affluence and comfort, when the belly is robbed to
clothe the back--the inner man crucified to make the outside _lie_ you
through the world, or into--genteel "society." This, though abominable,
is common, and leads to innumerable ups and downs, crime and fun, in
this old world that we temporarily inhabit.

Choosing rather to give our life pictures a familiar and diverting--and
certainly none the less instructive garb--than to hunt up misery, and
depict the woeful tragics of our existence, we will give the facts of a
case--not uncommon, we ween, either, that came to us from a friend of
one of the parties.

In most cities--especially, perhaps, in Baltimore and Washington, are
any quantity of decayed families; widows and orphans of men--who, while
blessed with oxygen and hydrogen sufficient to keep them healthy and
active--held offices, or such positions in the business world as enabled
them and their families to carry pretty stiff necks, high heads, and go
into what is called "good society;" meaning of course where good
furniture garnishes good finished domiciles, good carpets, good rents,
good dinners, and where good clothes are exhibited--but where good
intentions, good manners and morals are mostly of no great importance.
As, in most all such cases, when, by some fortuitous accident, the head
of the family collapses, or dies,--the reckless regard for society
having led to the squandering of the income, fast or faster than it
came, the poor family is driven by the same society, so coveted, to hide
away--move off, and by a thousand dodges of which wounded pride is
capable, work their way through the world, under tissues of false
pretences; at once ludicrous and pitiable. Such a family we have in
view. Colonel Somebody held a lucrative office under government, in the
city of Washington. Colonel Somebody, one day, very unexpectedly, died.
There was nothing mysterious in that, but the Somebodies having always
cut quite a swell in the "society" of the capital--which society, let us
tell you, is of the most fluctuating, tin-foil and ephemeral character;
it was by some considered strange, that as soon as Colonel Somebody had
been decently buried in his grave, his family at once made a sale of
their most expensive furniture--the horses, carriage, and man-servant
disappeared, and the Somebodies apprized society that they were going
north, to reside upon an estate of the Colonel's in New York. And so
they vanished. Whither they went or how they fared society did not know,
and society did not care!

Mrs. Somebody had two daughters and a son, the eldest twenty-three,
_confessedly_, and the youngest, the son, seventeen. Marriages, in such
society, floating and changing as it does in Washington, are not
frequent, and less happy or prosperous when effected; every body,
inclined to become acquainted, or form matrimonial connections, are ever
on the alert for something or somebody better than themselves; and under
such circumstances, naturally enough, Miss Alice Somebody--though a
pretty girl--talented, as the world goes, highly educated, too, as many
hundreds beside her, was still a spinster at twenty-three. The fact was,
Mrs. Somebody was a woman of experience in the world--indeed, a dozen
years' experience in life at Washington, had given her very definite
ideas of expediency and diplomacy; and hence, as the means were cut off
to live in their usual style and expensiveness--Mrs. Somebody packed up
and retired to Baltimore. The son soon found an occupation in a
store--the daughter, being a woman of taste and education, resorted
to--as a matter of _diversion_--they could not think of earning a
living, of course!--the needle--while Mrs. Somebody arranged a pair of
neat apartments, for two "gentlemen of unexceptionable reference," as
boarders.

During their palmy days at the capital of the nation, Miss Alice
Somebody came in contact with a young gentleman named Rhapsody,--of
pleasant and respectable demeanor, _an office-holder_, but not high up
enough to suit the tastes and aims of Colonel Somebody and his lady; and
so, our friend Rhapsody stood little or no chance for favor or
preferment in the graces of Miss Alice, though he was a recognized
visitor at the Colonel's house, and essayed to make an impression upon
the heart's affections of the Colonel's daughter.

Time fled, and with its fleetings came those changes in the fates and
fortunes of the Somebodies, we have noted. Nor was our friend Rhapsody
without his changes,--mutations of fortune, a change of government, made
changes. Rhapsody one morning was not as much surprised as mortified to
find his "services no longer required," as a new hand was awaiting his
withdrawal. Rhapsody, true to custom at the capital--lived up to and
ahead of his salary; and, when deposed, deemed it prudent to make his
exit from a spot no longer likely to be favorable to the self-respect or
personal comfort of a man bereft of power, and without patronage or
position. Rhapsody, by trade (luckily he had a trade), was a boot-maker.
Start not, reader, at the idea; we know "shoemaker" may have a tendency
to shock some people, whose moral and mental culture has been sadly
neglected, or quite perverted; but Rhapsody was but a boot-maker, and no
doubt quite as gentlemanly--physically and mentally considered, as the
many thousands who merely _wear_ boots, for the luxury of which they are
indebted to the skill, labor and industry of others. Rhapsody came down
gracefully, and quite as manfully, to his level, only changing the scene
of his endeavors to the city of monuments. Rhapsody had feelings--pride.
He sought obscurity, in which he might perform the necessary labors of
his craft, to enable him to keep his head above water, and await that
tide in the affairs of men, when perhaps he might again be drifted to
fortune and favor.

Rhapsody took lodgings in a respectable hotel; he arose late--took
breakfast, read the news--smoked--lounged--dressed, and went through the
ordinary evolutions of a gentleman of leisure, until he dined at 3 P.
M.; then, by a circuitous way, he proceeded to his shop--put on his
working attire, and went at it faithfully, until midnight, when, having
accomplished his maximum of toil, he re-dressed--walked to his
hotel--talked politics--fashions, etc., took his glass of wine with a
friend, and very quietly retired; to rise on the morrow, and go through
the same routine from day to day, only varying it a little by an eye to
an eligible marriage, or a place.

Rhapsody--we must give him the credit of the fact--from no mawkish
feeling of his own, but from force of public opinion, resorted to this
secret manner of eking out his daily bread, and acting out his part of
the fictitious gentleman. During one of his morning
lounges--accidentally, Rhapsody met Miss Somebody in the street. They
had not met for some few years, and it may not be troublesome to
conceive, that Miss Alice--under the new order of things--was more
pleased than otherwise to renew the acquaintance of other days, with a
gentleman still supposed to be--and his attire and manner surely gave
no sign of an altered state of affairs--in a position recognizable by
society.

Rhapsody renewed his attentions to the Somebody family, and Miss Alice
in particular--with fervor. He admitted himself no longer an _attache_
of government, but offset the deprivation of government patronage, by
asserting that he was graduating for a higher sphere in life than the
drudgery and abjectness of a clerkship--he was studying political
economy, and the learned profession of the law!

The Somebodies were _game_; not a concession would they make to stern
indigence; it was merely for the sake of quietude, said Mrs. Somebody,
and the solace of retirement from the gay and tempestuous whirls of
society, that _we_ changed the scene and dropped a peg lower in domestic
show. Rhapsody believed Colonel Somebody a man of substance. He knew how
easy it was to account for the expenditure of fifteen hundred dollars a
year, but it did not so readily appear possible for a man holding the
Colonel's place and perquisites, some thousands a year, to die poor,
without estate; ergo, the Somebodies were still, doubtless, _somebody_,
and the more the infatuated Rhapsody dwelt upon it, the more he absorbed
the idea of forming an alliance with the dead Colonel's family. And the
favor with which he was received seemed to facilitate matters as
desirably as could be wished for. What airy castles, or gossamer
projects may have haunted the fancy of our sanguine friend, Rhapsody, we
know not; but that he whacked away more cheerily at his trade, and kept
up his appearances spiritedly, was evident enough. An expert and
artistic craftsman, he secured paying work, and executed it to the
satisfaction of his employers.

The industry of the Somebodies was one of the traits in the characters
of the two young women, particularly commendatory to Rhapsody; he
seldom paid them a morning or afternoon call, that they were not
diligently engaged with needles and Berlin wool--fashioning wrought
suspenders for brother, slippers for brother, or mother, or sister, or
the Rev. Mr. So-and-So--the recently made inmate of the family. The
multiplicity of such performances, for brother, mother, sister, the
reverend gentleman--_mere pastime_, as Mrs. Somebody would remark,--most
probably would have caused a mystery or misgiving in the minds of many
adventurous _Lotharios_; but Rhapsody, though, as we see, a man of the
world, had something yet to learn of society and its complexities.
Things progressed smoothly--the reverend gentleman facetiously cajoled
Miss Alice and the mother upon the issue of coming events--the lively
young lawyer, etc., etc.,--and it seemed to be a settled matter that
Miss Alice was to be the bride of Mr. Rhapsody at last.

Rhapsody, usually, after dark, in the evening, in his laboring garments,
made his return of work and received more. Whilst thus out, one evening,
on business, in making a sudden turn of a corner, he came plump upon
Mrs. Somebody and Alice! Rhapsody would have dashed down a cellar--into
a shop--up an alley, or sunk through the footwalk, had any such
opportunity offered, but there was none--he was there--beneath the flame
of a street lamp, with the eagle eyes of all the party upon him! Cut off
from retreat, he boldly faced the enemy!

He was going to a political caucus meeting in a noisy and turbulent
ward--apprehended a disturbance--donned those shady habiliments, and the
large green bag in his hand, that a--well, though it did not seem to
contain such goods, was supposed, for the nonce, to contain his books
and papers; documents he was likely to have use for at the caucus!
Rhapsody got through--it was a tight shave; he dexterously declined
accompanying the ladies home--they were rather queerly attired
themselves, it occurred to Rhapsody; they made some excuse for their
appearance, and so the maskers _quit, even_. Time passed on--Alice and
Rhapsody had almost climaxed the preparatory negotiations of an hymenial
conclusion, when another _contretemps_ came to pass--it was the grand
finale.

It was on a rather blustery night, that Rhapsody, in haste, sought the
shop of his employer; he had work in hand which, being ordered done at a
certain hour, for an anxious customer, he was in haste to deliver. His
green bag under his arm, in rushed Rhapsody,--the servant of the
customer was awaiting the arrival of the _bottier_ and his master's
boots. The shopman eagerly seized Rhapsody's verdant- satchel,
and out came the boots, and which underwent many critical inspections,
eliciting sundry professional remarks from the shopman, to our hero,
Rhapsody, who, in his business matters had assumed, it appeared, the
more humble name of _Mr. Jones_, in the shop. The customer's servant
stood by the counter--fencing off a lady, further on--from immediate
notice of Rhapsody. A side glance revealed sundry patterns or specimens
of most elegantly-wrought slippers--the boss of the shop, and the lady,
were apparently negotiating a trade, in these embroidered articles; the
lady, now but a few feet from Rhapsody and the garrulous shopman, turned
toward the poor fellow just as the shopman had stuffed more work into
the green bag--their eyes met. Rhapsody felt an all-overish sensation
peculiar to that experienced by an amateur in a shower bath, during his
first _douse_, or the incipient criminal detected in his initiatory
crime! Poor Rhapsody felt like fainting, while Miss Alice Somebody,
without the nerve to gather up her work, or withstand a further test of
the force of circumstances, precipitately left the store, her face red
as scarlet, and her demeanor wild and incomprehensible, at least to all
but Rhapsody.

       *       *       *       *       *

Rhapsody was at breakfast the next morning--a servant announced a
gentleman in the parlor desirous of an interview with Mr. Rhapsody--it
was granted, and soon _Jones_, the _boot-maker_, confronted the Rev. Mr.
So-and-So. Though an inclination to _smile_ played about the pleasant
features of the reverend gentleman, he assumed to be severe upon what he
called the duplicity of Mr. Rhapsody; and that gentleman patiently
hearing the story out, quietly asked:

"Are you, sir, here as an accuser--denouncer, or an ambassador of peace
and good will?"

"The latter, sir, is my self-constituted mission," said the reverend
gentleman.

"Then," said Rhapsody, "I am ready to make all necessary concessions--a
clean breast of it, you may say. I am in a false position--struggling
against public opinion--false pride--falsely, and yet honestly, working
my way through the world. I am no more nor less, nominally, than _Jones,
the boot-maker_. Now," continued Rhapsody, "if a false purpose covers
not a false heart also, I can yet be happy in the affections of Miss
Somebody, and she in mine. For those who can battle as we have, against
the common chances of indigence, upright and alone in our integrity, may
surely yet win greater rewards by mutual consolation and support, our
fortunes joined."

"I have not been mistaken, then, sir," said the reverend gentleman, "in
your character, if I was in your occupation; and you may rely upon my
friendly service in an amicable and definite arrangement of this very
delicate matter."

       *       *       *       *       *

When General Harrison took the "chair of state," our friend Rhapsody was
reinstated in his place, occupied years before, and by fortuitous
circumstances he got still higher--an appointment of trust connected
with a handsome salary; so that Jones, the boot-maker, was enabled to
re-enter the Somebodies into the gay and fluctuating society at the
national capital, from which they had been so unceremoniously driven by
the death of the husband and father. Mrs. Somebody, that was, however,
is now a much older and much wiser person, the wife of our ministerial
friend, who vouches the difficulty he had in overcoming Mrs. Somebody's
repugnance to leather--and for sundry quibbles--yea, strong arguments
against any blood of hers ever uniting with the fates and fortunes of a
boot-maker; with what _propriety_, her experience has long since taught
her. Alice is the happiest of women, mother of many fine children, the
wife of a man poverty could not corrupt, if public opinion forced him to
mask the means that gave him bread. Rhapsody is no longer a politician,
or office-holder, but engaged in lucrative pursuits that yield comfort
and position in society. To relate the trials, courtship and marriage of
"Jones, the boot-maker," is one of our friend Rhapsody's standing jokes,
to friends at the fireside and dinner table; but that such a safe and
happy tableau would again befall parties so circumstanced, is a very
material question; and the moral of our story, being rather complex,
though very definite, we leave to society, and you, reader, to
determine.




A Distinction with a Difference.


A gentleman from "out 'town," came into Redding & Co.'s on Christmas
day, and leaning thoughtfully over the counter, says he to Prescott,
"Got any Psalms here?"

"N-n-no," says Prescott, reflectingly, "but," he continued, after a
moment's pause, and handing down a copy of Hood, "here's plenty of old
Joe's!"

The out-of-town gentleman gave a glance at _the pictures_, and with a
countenance indicative of having been tasting a crab-apple--left!




Pills and Persimmons.


I remember an old "Joke" told me by my father, of an old, and rather
addle-headed gentleman, who some fifty years ago did business in New
Castle, Delaware, and having occasion to send out to England for
hardware, wrote his order, and as he was about to despatch it to the
captain of the ship, lying in the stream, ready for sea, a neighbor got
him to add an order for some kegs of nails, and in the hurry, the old
man dashed off his _P. S._, but upon attempting to read the whole order
over, he couldn't make head or tail of it.

"Well," says he, in a flurry, "I'll send it, just as it is; they are
better scholars in England than I am--_they'll make it out_."

Strange enough to say, when the hardware came over, among the rest of
the stuff were the so many kegs of nails, but upon opening one of these
kegs, it was full, or nearly so, of American quarter dollars. The old
man roared out in a [word missing].

"Haw! haw! haw! Well, blast me," says he, "if _they_ ain't scholars,
fust-rate scholars, in England; _it's worth while sending 'em bad
manuscript_."

A still more comical mistake is related to us, of a commercial
transaction that actually took place within a year or two, between
parties severally situated in Boston and the city of San Francisco,
California. As we consider the whole transaction rather _rich_, we
transcribe it for the diversion it may furnish.

Simmons, the "Oak Hall" man, of Boston, had set up a shop in San
Francisco, to which he was almost daily sending all sorts of cheap
clothing, and making, on the same, more money than a horse could pull;
and in his package, he was in the habit of sending articles for friends,
&c. A gentleman recently gone to the gold country, from Boston,
acquainted with Simmons, and Simmons with him, found, upon looking
around San Francisco, that his own business, _lawing_, wasn't worth two
cents, as many of his craft were turning their attention to matters more
useful to the human family--digging cellars, wheeling baggage, driving
teams, &c. So lawyer Bunker _turned_ his attention from Blackstone,
Chitty, Coke on Littleton, and those fellows of deep-red, blue-black
law, to the manufacture of quack nostrums. Bunker found that the great
appetite we Yankees have for quack medicines, pills and powders,
suffered no diminution in the gold country; on the contrary, the
appetite became rather sharpened for those luxuries, and Bunker found
that a New York butcher, with whom he became acquainted, was absolutely
making his fortune, by the manufacture of dough pills, spiced with
coriander, and a slight tincture of calomel.

"Egad!" says Bunker, "_I'll_ go into medicine. I'll write to a friend in
Boston, to send me _out_ a few medicine and receipt books, and a lot of
pulverized liquorice, quinine, &c., with a pill machine, and I guess
I'll be after my New York butchering friend in a double brace of
shakes."

Now, it may be premised that as Bunker was a lawyer, he wrote a
first-rate hand; in fact, he might have bragged of being able to equal,
if not surpass, the "Hon." Rufus Choate, whose scrawl more resembles the
scratchings of a poor half-drowned in an ink-saucer spider, meandering
over foolscap, than quill-driving, and as unintelligible as the marks of
a tea-box or hieroglyphics on the sarcophagus of ye ancient Egyptians!
In short, Counsellor Bunker's manuscript was awful; a few of his most
intimate friends, only, pretending to have the hang of it at all; and to
one of these friends, Bunker directs his message, transmits it by Uncle
Sam's mail _poche_, and in fever heat he awaits the return of the
precious combustibles that were to make his fortune. In course of time,
Bunker's friends receive the order, but, alas! it was all Greek to them;
they cyphered in vain, to make out any thing in the letters except
_persimmons_.

"What the deuce," says one of Bunker's friends, "does Joe want with
persimmons?"

They went at it again, and again, but there was no mistaking the final
sentence, "_send, without delay, persimmons_."

"Persimmons?" said one.

"Persimmons?" echoed another.

"Persimmons? What in thunder does Joe Bunker want with _persimmons_?"
responded a third.

"Persimmons!" all three chimed.

"Persimmons," says one, "are not used in law proceedings, anyhow."

"Nor in gospel, even, provided Joe has got into that," responded
another.

"Persimmons are not medicinal."

"They are not chemical."

"Persimmons are no part, or ingredient, in art, science, law, or
religion; now, for what does Joe Bunker, counsellor at law, want us to
forward, without delay, _persimmons_?"

Well, they couldn't tell; in vain they reasoned. Joe's letter was very
brief, strictly to the point, and that point was--_persimmons!_ In the
first place, it is not everybody that knows exactly what persimmons are,
where they come from, and what they are good for. One of Bunker's
friends had lived in the South; he knew persimmons; it occurred to him
that possums, and some human beings, especially the  pop'lation,
were the only critters particularly fond of the fruit. Webster was
consulted, to see what light he cast upon the matter: he informed them
that "_Persimmon_ was a tree, and its fruit, a species of _Diospyros_, a
native of the States south of New York. Fruit like a plum, and when not
ripe, very hard and astringent (rather so), but when ripe, luscious and
highly nutritious."

"Well, there," said one of Bunker's friends, "I'll bet Joe's sick;
persimmons have been prescribed for his cure, and the sooner we send the
persimmons the better!"

"Persimmons! Now I come to think of it," says the man who had a faint
idea of what persimmons were, "they make beer, first-rate beer of
persimmons, in the South, and it's my opinion, that Joe Bunker is going
into persimmon beer business; as you say, he _may be_ sick--persimmon
beer may be the California cure-all; in either case, let us forward the
persimmons without delay!"

Now persimmons never ripen until _touched_ pretty smartly with Jack
Frost. This was in September; persimmons were mostly full grown, but not
ripe. A large keg of them was ordered from Jersey, and as fast as Adams
& Co.'s great Express to San Francisco could take them out, _the
persimmons went!_

Counsellor Bunker, relying upon his friends to forward without delay the
tools and remedial agents to make his fortune in the pill business, went
to work, got him an office, changed his name, and added an M. D. to it,
had a sign painted, advertised his shop, and informed the public that on
such a time he would open, and guarantee to cure all ills, from lumbago
to liver complaint, from toothache to lock-jaw, spring fever to yaller
janders, and in his enthusiasm, he sat down with a ream of paper, to
count up the profits, and calculate the time it would take to get his
pile of gold dust and start for home.

The day arrived that Doctor Phlebotonizem was to open, and he found
customers began to _call_, and sure enough, in comes a large keg, direct
through from the States, to his address; the freight bill on it was
pretty considerable, but Joe out and paid it, rejoicing to think that
now he was all right, and that if the proprietors of gold dust and the
lumbago, or any of the various ills set forth in his catalogue of human
woes, had spare change, he would soon find them out. He closed his door,
opened his cask--

"What in the name of everlasting sin and misery is this?" was the first
_burst_, upon feeling the fine saw dust, and seeing, nicely packed, the
green and purple, round and glossy--he couldn't tell what.

"Pills? No, good gracious, they can't be _pills_--smell queer--some
mistake--can't be any mistake--my name on the cask--(tastes one of the
'article')--O! by thunder! (tastes again)--I'm blasted, they (tastes
again) are, by Jove, _persimmons!_ Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ho! ho! he! he!
ha! ha! ha!"

And the ex-counsellor of modern law roared until he grew livid in the
face.

"I see--ha! ha! I see; they have misunderstood every line I wrote them,
except the last, and that--ha! ha! ha!--for my direction to send out my
stuff _per Simmons_, they send me PERSIMMONS! Ha! ha! ha! ho! ho!"

But, after enjoying the _fun_ of the matter, ex-counsellor Bunker
discovered the thing was nothing to laugh at; _patients_ were at the
door--if he did not soon prescribe for their cases, his now numerous
creditors would prescribe for him! What was to be done? Very dull and
prosy people often become enterprising and imaginative, to a wonderful
degree, when put to their trumps. This philosophical fact applied to
ex-counsellor Bunker's case exactly. He was there to better his fortune,
and he felt bound to do it, persimmons or no persimmons. It occurred to
him, as those infernal persimmons had cost him something, they ought to
_bring in_ something. By the aid of starch and sugar, Doctor
Phlebotonizem converted some hundreds of the smallest persimmons into
_pills_--sugar-coated pills--warranted to cure about all the ills flesh
was heir to, at $2 each dose. One generally constituted a dose for a
full-grown person, and as the patient left with a countenance much
"puckered up," and rarely returned, the _pseudo_ M. D. concluded there
was virtue in persimmon pills, and so, after disposing of his stock to
first-rate advantage, the doctor paid off his bills; tired of the pill
trade, he _vamosed the ranche_ with about funds enough to reach home,
and explain to his friends the difference between _per_ Simmons and
_persimmons!_




Mysteries and Miseries of the Life of a City Editor.


A great deal has been written, to show that the literary business is a
very disagreeable business; and that branch of it coming under the
"Editorial" head is about as comfortable as the bed of Procustes would
be to an invalid. It may doubtless look and sound well, to see one's
name in print, going the rounds, especially at the head of the editorial
columns, from ten to fifty thousand eyes and tongues scanning and
pronouncing it every day, or week--hundreds and thousands of the fair
sex wondering whether he is a young or an old man, a married man or a
bachelor; while the pious and devout are contemplating the serious of
his emanations, and conjecturing whether he be a Methodist, Puseyite, or
Catholic, a Presbyterian, Unitarian or Baptist; and the politicians
scanning his views, to discover whether he _leans_ toward the
_Locofocos, Free-Soilers, or Whigs_--all being necessarily much
mystified, inasmuch as the neutral writer, or editor, is obliged to
study, and most vigilantly to act, the part of a cunning
diplomatist--stroke every body's hair with the _grain!_




The Tribulations of Incivility.


"A gentleman by the name of Collins stopping with you?"

"Collins?" was the response.

"Yes, Collins, or Collings, I ain't sure which," said the hardy-looking,
bronzed seaman, to the gaily-dressed, flippant-mannered, be-whiskered
man of vast importance, presiding over the affairs of one of our
"first-class hotels."

"Very indefinite inquiry, then," said the hotel manager.

"Well, I brought this small package from Bremen for a gentleman who came
out passenger with us some time ago; he left it in Bremen--wanted me to
fetch it out when the ship returned--here it is."

"What do you want to leave it here for? We know nothing about the man,
sir."

"You don't? Well, you ought to, for the gentleman put up here, and told
me he'd be around when we got into port again. He was a deuced clever
fellow, and you ought to have kept the reckoning of such a man," said
the seaman.

"Ha, ha! we keep so many clever fellows," said he of the hotel, "that
they are no novelties, sir."

"I wonder then," said the seaman, "you do not imitate some of them, for
there's no danger of the world's getting crowded with a crew of good
men."

"If you have any business with us we shall attend to it, sir, but we
want none of your impertinence!"

"O, you don't? Well, Mister, I've business aboard of your craft; if
you're the commodore, I'd like you to see that my friend Collins is
piped up, or that this package be stowed away where he could come afoul
of it. His name is Collins; here it is in black and white, on the
parcel, and here's where I was to drop it."

One of the "understrappers" overhearing the dispute, whispered his
dignified superior that Mr. Collins, an English gentleman, late from
Bremen, was in the house, whereupon the dignified empressario, turning
to the self-possessed man of the sea, said--

"Ah, well, leave the parcel, leave the parcel; we _suppose_ it's
correct."

"There it is," said the seaman; "commodore, you see that the gentleman
gets it; and I say," says the sailor, pushing back his hat and giving
his breeches a regular sailor twitch, "I wish you'd please to say to the
gentleman, Mr. Collins, you know, that Mr. Brace, first officer of the
Triton, would like to see him aboard, any time he's at leisure."

But in the multiplicity of greater affairs, the hotel gentleman hardly
attempted to listen or attend to the sailor's message, and Mr. Brace,
first officer of the Triton, bore away, muttering to himself--

"These land-crabs mighty apt to put on airs. I'd like to have that
powder monkey in my watch about a week--I'd have him down by the lifts
and braces!"

Let us suppose it to be in the glorious month of October, when the
myriads of travellers by land and ocean are wending their way from the
chilly north towards the sunny south, when the invalid seeks the tropics
in pursuit of his health, and the speculative man of business returns
with his "invoices," to his shop, or factory, where profit leads the
way.

We are on board ship--the Triton ploughing the deep blue waters of the
ocean track from Sandy Hook to New Orleans; for October, the weather is
rather unruly, _damp_, and boisterous. We perceive a number of
passengers on board, and by near guess of our memory, we see a person or
two we have seen before. Our be-whiskered friend of the "first-class
hotel," is there; he does not look so self-possessed and pompous on
board the heaving and tossing ship as he did behind his marble slab in
"the office." "The sea, the sea!" as the song says, has quite taken the
starch out of our stiff friend, who is not enjoying a first-rate time.
And from an overheard conversation between two hardy, noble specimens of
men that are men--two officers of the stoutly-timbered ship, the comfort
of the be-whiskered gentleman is in danger of a commutation.

"Do you know him, Mr. Brace?"

"Yes, I know him; I knew him as soon as I got the cut of his jib coming
aboard. Now, says I, my larky, you and I've got to travel together, and
we'll settle a little odd reckoning, if you please, or if you don't
please, afore we see the Balize. You see, that fellow keeps a crack
hotel in York; I goes in there to deliver a package for a deuced good
fellow as ever trod deck, and this powder monkey, loblolly-looking swab,
puts on his airs, sticks up his nose, and hardly condescends to exchange
signals with me. Ha! ha! I've met these galore cocks before; I can take
the tail feathers out of 'em!" says Mr. Brace, who is the same hardy,
frank and free fellow, with whom the reader has already formed something
of a brief acquaintance. The person to whom Brace was addressing himself
was the second officer of the merchantman, and it was settled that
whatever nautical knowledge and skill could do to make things uneasy for
Mr. Lollypops, the empressario of the "first-class hotel," was to be
done, by mutual management of the two salt-water jokers.

"It appears to me, that a--bless me, sir, a--how this ship rolls!" said
Lollypops, coming upon deck, and addressing Mr. Brace; "I--a never saw a
ship roll so."

"Heavy sea on, sir," said Brace; "nothing to what we'll catch before a
week's out."

"Bad coast, I believe, at this time o' year?" said Lollypops, balancing
himself on first one leg and then the other.

"Worst coast in the world, sir; I'd rather go to Calcutta any time than
go to Orleans; more vessels lost on the coast than are lost anywhere
else on the four seas."

"You don't say so!" said Lollypops.

"Fact, sir," said Brace, who occasionally kept exchanging private and
mysterious signals with the second officer, who held the wheel.

"Let her up a point, Mr. Brown, let her up!" Mr. Brown did let her up,
and the way the Triton took head down and heels up and a roll to
windward, did not speak so well for the nautical _menage_ of the
officers as it did for the quiet deviltry of the salt-water Joe Millers.
The avalanche of brine inundated the decks, making the sailors look
quite asquirt, and driving Mr. Lollypops, an ancient voyager or two, and
sundry other travelling gentry--very suddenly into the cabin. The next
day the same performance followed; the appearance of Lollypops on deck
was a signal for Brace or Brown, to go in, get up a double _roll_ on the
ship, an imaginary gale was discussed, wrecks and reefs, dangerous
points and dreadful currents were descanted upon, until Mr. Lollypops'
health, at the end of the first week, was no better fast; in fact, he
was getting sick of the voyage, while others around grew fat upon it. A
fine morning induced the invalid to light his regalia and walk the
decks; immediately Mr. Brace, or Brown, gave orders to wash down the
decks. Mr. Lollypops went aloft, _ergo_, as far as the main top;
immediately the first officer had the men "going about," heaving here
and letting go there; in short, so endangering the hat and underpinning
of the be-whiskered landlord of the "first-class hotel" that he was fain
to crawl down, take the wet decks, tip-toe, and crawl into the cabin,
damp as a dishcloth, and utterly disgusted with what he had seen of the
sea! Accidentally, one afternoon, a tar pot fell from aloft; somehow or
other, the careless sailor who held it, or should have held it--"let go
all" just when Mr. Lollypops was in the immediate neighborhood; the
result was that he had a splendid dressing-gown and other
equipments--ruined eternally! Going into the cabin, Lollypops inquires
for the Captain--

"Sir!" says he, "I am mad, Sir, very mad, Sir; yes, I am, Sir; look at
me, only look at me! In rough weather we do not expect pleasant times at
sea, but, Sir, ever since I have been on board, Sir, your infernal
officers, Sir, have thrown this ship into all manner of unpleasant
situations, kept the decks wet, rattled chains over my berth,
wang-banged the rigging around, and finally, by thunder, I'm covered all
over with villanous soap fat and tar! Now, Sir, this is not all the
result of accident--it's premeditated rascality!"

"Sir"--says the bully mate, coming forward, at this crisis, "my name's
Mr. Brace; when I was aboard your craft, in New York, you rather put on
_airs_, and I said if you and I ever got to sea together--we'd have a
_blow_ out. Now we're about even; if you're a mind we'll call the matter
square--"

"Yes, yes, for heaven's sake, let us have no more of this!" says
Lollypops.

"We'll have a bottle together, and wish for a clean run to Orleans!"
continued officer Brace.

Lollypops agreed; he not only stood the wine, but got over his anger,
vowed to look deeper into character, and never again rebuff honest
manliness, though hid under the coarse costume of a son of Neptune! A
hearty laugh closed the scene, and fair weather and a fine termination
attended the voyage of the Triton to New Orleans; for a finer, drier
craft never danced over the ocean wave, than that good ship, under
_rational_ management.




The Broomstick Marriage.


"Marry in haste and repent at leisure," is a time-honored idea, and
calls to mind a matrimonial circumstance which, according to pretty
lively authority, once came about in the glorious Empire State. A
certain Captain of a Lake Erie steamer, who was blessed with an elegant
temperament for fun, fashion, and the feminines, was "laid up," over
winter, near his childhood's home in Genesee county. Having nearly
exhausted his private stock of jokes, and gone the entire rounds of life
and liveliness of the season, he bethought him how he should create a
little _stir_, and have his joke at the expense of a young Doctor, who
had recently "located" in the neighborhood, and by his rather _taking_
person and manners, cut something of a swath in the community, and
especially amongst the _calico!_

The profession of young Esculapius gave him an access to private society
that ordinary circumstances did not vouch to most men. Among the many
families with which Dr. Mutandis had formed an acquaintance was that of
old Capt. Figgles. The Captain was a queer old mortal, who in his hale
old days had quit life on the ocean wave for the quietude of
agricultural comfort. The Captain was a blustering salt, whimsical, but
generous and social, as old sailors most generally are. He was supposed
to be in easy circumstances, but _how_ easy, very few knew.

Capt. Figgles's family consisted of himself, three daughters, one
married and "settled," the other two at home; an ancient <DW52> woman,
who had served in the Captain's family,--ship and shore--a lifetime.
Dinah and old Sam, her husband, with two or three farm-laborers,
constituted the Captain's household. Betsy, the youngest daughter, the
old man's favorite, had been christened Elizabeth, but that not being
warm enough for Capt. Figgles's idea of attachment, he ever called his
daughter, Betsy, and so she was called by _almost_ everybody at all
familiar with the family. Betsy Figgles was not a very poetical subject,
by name or size. She was a fine, bouncing young woman of
four-and-twenty; she was dutiful and bountiful, if not beautiful. She
was useful, and even ornamental in her old father's eyes, and, as he was
wont to say, in his never-to-be-forgotten salt-water _linguae_--

"Betsy was a _craft_, she was; a square-bilt, trim, well-ballasted
craft, fore and aft; none of your sky-scraping, taut, Baltimore clipper,
fair-weather, no-tonnage jigamarees! Betsy is a _woman_; her mother was
just like her when I fell in with her, and it wasn't long afore I
chartered her for a life's voyage. And the man who lets such a woman
slip her cable and stand off soundings, for 'Cowes and a market,' when
he's got a chance to fill out her papers and take command, is not a
_man_, but a mouse, or a long-tailed Jamaica rat!"

Between Capt. Tiller, our Lake boatman, and Capt. Figgles, there was an
intimacy of some years' standing, but the old Captain and the young
Captain didn't exactly "hitch horses"--whether it was because Capt. T.
came under the old man's idea of "a Jamaica rat," or because he looked
upon inland sailors as greenhorns, deponent saith not.

Dr. Mutandis and Capt. Figgles were only upon so-so sort of business
sociality, though both the junior Captain and the Doctor were intimate
enough with both the Miss Figgleses. Capt. Tiller, as we intimated, was
about to leave for coming duties on the Lake, and being so full of old
Nick, it was indispensable that he must play off a practical joke, or
have some fun with somebody, as a sort of a yarn for the season, on his
boat.

The Figgleses announced a grand quilting scrape; the Doctor and Captain
were among the invited guests, of course, and for some hours the
assembled party had indeed as grand a good time generally as usually
falls to the lot of a country community. Old black Ebenezer--but whose
name had also been cut down for convenience sake to _Sam_, by the old
Captain--did the orchestral duties upon his fiddle, which, aided by a
youngster on the triangle and another on the tambourine, formed quite "a
full band" for the occasion, and dancing was done up in style!

As a sort of "change of scene" or divertisement in the programme,
somebody proposed games of this and games of that, and while old Capt.
Figgles was as busy as "a flea in a tar bucket"--to use the old
gentleman's simile--fulminating and fabricating a rousing bowl of egg
flip for the entire party, Capt. Tiller and Dr. Mutandis were sort of
paired off with a party of eight, in which were the two Miss Figgleses,
to get up their own game.

"Good!" says Capt. Tiller, "pair off with Miss Betsy, Doctor, and I'll
pair off with Miss Sally (the older daughter of Capt. F.), and now what
say you? Let's make up a wedding-party--_let's jump the broomstick!_"

"Agreed!" cries the Doctor. "Who'll be the parson?"

"I'll be parson," says Capt. T.

"Well, get your book."

"Here it is!" cries another, poking a specimen of current Scripture into
the _pseudo_ parson's hands.

"Miss Betsy and Dr. Mutandis, stand up," says Capt. Tiller, assuming
quite the air and grace of the parson.

Bridesmaids, grooms, &c., were soon arranged in due order, and the
interesting ceremony of joining hands and hearts in one happy bond of
mutual and indissoluble (slightly, sometimes!) love and obedience was
progressing.

"Cap'n Figgles, you're wanted," says one, interrupting the old man, now
busy concocting his grog for all hands.

"Go to blazes, you son of a sea cook!" cries the old gentleman; "haven't
you common decency to see when a man's engaged in a _calculation_ he
oughtn't to be disturbed, eh?"

"But Betsy's going to be married!" insists the disturber, who, in fact,
was half-seas over in infatuation with Miss Betsy, and had had a slight
inkling of a fact that by the law of the State anybody could marry a
couple, and the marriage would be as obligatory upon the parties as
though performed by the identical legal authorities to whom young folks
"in a bad way" are in the habit of appealing for relief.

"Let 'em heave ahead, you marine!" cries Capt. Figgles.

"Are you really willing to allow it?" continues the swain.

"Me willing? It's Betsy's affair; let her keep the lookout," said the
old gent.

"But don't you know, Cap'n----"

"No! nor I don't care, you swab!" cries the excited Captain. "Bear away
out of here," he continued, beginning to get down the glasses from the
corner-cupboard shelves, "unless--but stop! hold on! here, take this
waiter, Jones, and bear a hand with the grog, unless you want to stand
by, and see the ship's company go down by the lifts and braces, dry as
powder-monkeys! There; now pipe all hands--ship aho-o-o-oy!" bawls the
old Captain; "bear up, the whole fleet! Now splice the main-brace! Don't
nobody stand back, like loblolly boys at a funeral--come up and try
Capt. Figgles's grog!"

And up they came, the entire crew, old Ebenezer to the _le'ard_,
sweating like an ox, and laying off for the piping bowl he knew he was
"in for" from the hands of his indulgent old master.

In the mean time, the marriage ceremony had had its hour, and the bride
and bridegroom were "skylarking" with the rest of the company as
happily together as turtle-doves in a clover-patch. The evening's
entertainment wound up with an old-fashioned dance, and the quilting
ended. Dr. Mutandis lived some five miles distant, and having a call to
make the next morning near Capt. Figgles's farm, Dr. M. concluded to
stop with the Captain. As Capt. Tiller was leaving, he took occasion to
whisper into the ear of his medical friend--

"I wish you much joy, my fine fellow; you're married, if you did but
know it--fast as a church! Good time to you and Betsy!"

"The devil!" says the Doctor, musingly; "it strikes me, since I come to
think it over, that the laws of this State do privilege anybody to marry
a couple! By thunder! it would be a fine spot of work for me if I was
held to the ceremony by Miss Figgles!"

But the Doctor kept quiet, and next morning, after breakfast, he
departed upon his business. He had no sooner entered the house of his
patient, than he was wished much joy and congratulated upon the
_fatness_ and jolly good nature of his bride!

"But," says the Doctor, "you're mistaken in this affair. It's all a
hoax--a mere bit of fun!"

"Ha! ha!" laughed his patient, "fun?--you call getting married _fun_?"

"Yes," said the Doctor; "we were down at Capt. Figgles's; there was a
quilting and sort of a frolic going on----"

"Yes, we heard of it."

"And, in fun, to keep up the sports of the evening, Capt. Tiller
proposed to marry some of us. So Miss Figgles and I stood up, and
Captain Tiller acted parson, and we had some sport."

"Well," says the farmer (proprietor of the house), "Capt. Tiller has got
you into a tight place, Doctor; he's been around, laughing at the trick
he's played you, as perhaps you were not aware of the fact that by the
law you are now just as legally and surely married as though the knot
was tied by five dozen parsons or magistrates!"

"I'll shoot Capt. Tiller, by Heavens!" cries the enraged Doctor. "He's a
scoundrel! I'll crop his ears but I'll have satisfaction!"

"Pooh!" says the farmer, "if Betsy Figgles does not object, and her
father is willing and satisfied with the match as it is, I don't see,
Doctor, that you need mind the matter."

"I'll be revenged!" cries the Doctor.

"You were never previously married, were you?" says the farmer.

"No, sir," replied the Doctor.

"Engaged to any lady?" continued the interrogator.

"No, sir; I am too poor, too busy to think of such a folly as increasing
my responsibilities to society!"

"Then, sir," said the farmer, "allow me to congratulate you upon this
very fortunate event, rather than a disagreeable joke, for Capt. Figgles
is worth nearly a quarter of a million of dollars, sir; and Miss Betsy
is no gaudy butterfly, but, sir, she's an excellent girl, whom you may
be proud of as your wife."

"'Squire," says the Doctor, "jump in with me, and go back to the
Captain's and assist me to back out, beg the pardon of Miss Figgles and
her father, and terminate this unpleasant farce."

The magistrate-farmer got into the Doctor's gig, and soon they were at
Capt. Figgles's door.

"Captain," says the Doctor, "I don't know what excuse I _can_ offer for
the fool I've made of myself, through that puppy, Capt. Tiller, but,
sir----"

"Look a-here!" says the Captain, staring the Doctor broad in the face,
"I've got wind of the whole affair; now ease off your palaver. You've
married my daughter Betsy, in a joke; she's fit for the wife of a
Commodore, and all I've got to say is, if you want her, take her; if
you don't want her, you're a fool, and ought to be made a powder-monkey
for the rest of your natural life."

"But the lady's will and wishes have not been consulted, sir."

"Betsy!" cries the old Captain, "come here. What say you--are you
willing to remain spliced with the Doctor, or not? Hold up your head, my
gal--speak out!"

"Yes--_I'm agreed, if he is_," said she.

"Well said, hurrah!" cries the Captain. "Now, sir (to the Doctor), to
make all right and tight, I here give you, in presence of the 'Squire,
my favorite daughter Betsy, and one of the best farms in the State of
New York. Are you satisfied, Doctor?"

"Captain, I am. I shall try, sir, to make your daughter a happy woman!"
returned the Doctor, and he did; he became the founder of a large
family, and one of the wealthiest men in the State.

Rather pleased, finally, with the _joke_, the Doctor managed to turn it
upon the Captain, who in due course of law was arrested upon the charge
of illegally personating a parson, and marrying a couple without a
license! He was fined fifty dollars and costs; and of course was thus
caused to laugh on the wrong side of his mouth.




Appearances are Deceitful.


There are a great many good jokes told of the false notions formed as to
the character and standing of persons, as judged by their dress and
other outward signs. It is asserted, that a fine coat and silvery tone
of voice, are no evidence of the gentleman, and few people of the
present day will have the hardihood to assert that a blunt address, or
shabby coat, are infallible recommendations for putting, however honest,
or worthy, a man in a prominent attitude before the world, or the
community he moves in. Some men of wealth, for the sake of variety,
sometimes assume an eccentric or coarseness of costume, that answers all
very well, as long as they keep where they are known; but to find out
the levelling principles of utter nothingness among your fellow mortals,
only assume a shabby apparel and stroll out among strangers, and you'll
be essentially _knocked_ by the force of these facts. However, in this
or almost any other Christian community, there is little, if any excuse,
for a man, woman, or child going about or being "shabby." Let your
garments, however coarse, be made clean and whole, and keep them so; if
you have but one shirt and that minus sleeves and body, have the
fragments washed, and make not your face and hands a stranger to the
refreshing and purifying effects of water.

General Pinckney was one of the old school gentlemen of South Carolina.
A man he was of the most punctilious precision in manners and customs,
in courtesy, and cleanliness of dress and person; a man of brilliant
talents, and, in every sense of the word, "a perfect gentleman!" Mr.
Pinckney was one of the members of the first Congress, and during his
sojourn in Philadelphia, boarded with an old lady by the name of Hall, I
think--Mrs. Hall, a staid, prim and precise dame of the old regime.
Mistress Hall was a widow; she kept but few boarders in her fine old
mansion, on Chestnut street, and her few boarders were mostly members of
Congress, or belonged to the Continental army. Never, since the days of
that remarkable lady we read of in the books, who made her servant take
her chair out of doors, and air it, if any body by chance sat down on
it, and who was known to empty her tea-kettle, because somebody crossed
the hearth during the operation of boiling water for tea,--exceeded
Mistress Hall in domestic prudery and etiquette; hence it may be well
imagined that "shabby people" and the "small fry" generally, found
little or no favor in the eyes of the Quaker landlady of "ye olden
time."

General Pinckney having served out his term or resigned his place, it
was filled by another noted individual of Charleston, General Lowndes,
one of the most courteous and talented men of his day, but the
slovenliest and most shockingly ill-accoutred man on record. But for the
care and watchfulness of one of the most superb women in existence at
the time--Mrs. Lowndes,--the General would probably have frequently
appeared in public, with his coat inside out, and his shirt over all!

General Lowndes, in starting for Philadelphia, was recommended by his
friend Pinckney, to put up at Mistress Hall's; General P. giving General
Lowndes a letter of introduction to that lady. Travelling was a slow and
tedious, as well as fatiguing and dirty operation, at that day, so that
after a journey from Charleston to Philadelphia, even a man with some
pretensions to dress and respectable _contour_, would be apt to look a
little "mussy;" but for the poor General's part, he looked hard enough,
in all conscience, and had he known the _effect_ such an appearance was
likely to produce upon Mistress Hall, he would not have had the
temerity of invading her premises. But the General's views were far
above "buttons," leather, and prunella. Such a thing as paying
deferential courtesies to a man's garments, was something not dreamed of
in his philosophy.

"Mrs. Hall's, I believe?" said the General, to a servant answering the
ponderous, lion-headed knocker.

"Yes, sah," responded the sable waiter. "Walk dis way, sah, into de
parlor, sah."

The General stalked in, leisurely; around the fire-place were seated a
dozen of the boarders, the aforesaid "big bugs" of the olden time. Not
one moved to offer the stranger a seat by the fire, although his warm
Southern blood was pretty well congealed by the frosty air of the
evening. The General pulled off his gloves, laid down his great heavy
and dusty valice, and quietly took a remote seat to await the presence
of the landlady. She came, lofty and imposing; coming into the parlor,
with her astute cap upon her majestic head, her gold spectacles upon her
nose, as stately as a stage queen!

"Good evening," said the gallant General, rising and making a very
polite bow. "Mrs. Hall, I presume?"

"Yes, sir," she responded, stiffly, and eyeing Lowndes with considerable
diffidence. "Any business with me, sir?"

"Yes, madam," responded the General, "I--a--purpose remaining in the
city some time, and--a--I shall be pleased to put up with you."

"That's impossible, sir," was the ready and decisive reply. "My house is
full; I cannot accommodate you."

"Well, really, that _will_ be a disappointment, indeed," said the
General, "for I'm quite a stranger in the city, and may find it
difficult to procure permanent lodgings."

"I presume not, sir," said she; "there are _taverns_ enough, where
strangers are entertained."

The gentlemen around the fire, never offered to tender the stranger any
information upon the subject, but several eyed him very hard, and
doubtless felt pleased to see the discomfitted and ill-accoutred
traveller seize his baggage, adjust his dusty coat, and start out, which
_he_ was evidently very loth to do.

Just as Lowndes had reached the parlor door, it occurred to him that
Pinckney had recommended him to "put up" at the widow's, and also had
given him a letter of introduction to Mrs. Hall. This reminiscence
caused the General to retrace his steps back into the parlor, where,
placing his portmanteau on the table, he applied the key and opened it,
and began fumbling around for his letters, to the no small wonder of the
landlady and her respectable boarders.

"I have here, I believe, madam, a letter for you," blandly said the
General, still overhauling his baggage.

"A letter for _me_, sir?" responded the lady.

"Yes, madam, from an old friend of yours, who recommended me to stop
with you. Ah, here it is, from your friend General Pinckney, of South
Carolina."

"General Pinckney!" echoed the landlady, all the gentlemen present
cocking their eyes and ears! The widow tore open the letter, while
Lowndes calmly fastened up his portmanteau, and all of a sudden, quite
an incarnation spread its roseate hues over her still elegant features.

Lowndes seized his baggage, and, with a "good evening, madam, good
evening, gentlemen," was about to leave the institution, when the lady
arrested him with:

"Stop, if you please, sir; this is General Lowndes, I believe?"

"General Lowndes, madam, at your service," said he, with a dignified
bow.

According to all accounts, just then, there was a very sudden rising
about the fire-place, and a twinkling of chairs, as if they had all just
been _struck_ with the idea that there was a stranger about!

"Keep your seats, gentlemen," said the General; "I don't wish to disturb
any of you, as I'm about to leave."

"General Lowndes," said the widow, "any friend of Mr. Pinckney is
welcome to my house. Though we are full, I can make room for _you_,
sir."

The General stopped, and the widow and he became first-rate friends,
when they became better acquainted.




Cigar Smoke


Few persons can readily conceive of the amount of cigars consumed in
this country, daily, to say little or nothing of the yearly smokers. The
growing passion for the noxious weed is truly any thing but pleasantly
contemplative. A boy commences smoking at ten or a dozen years old, and
by the time he should be "of age," he is, in various hot-house developed
faculties, quite advanced in years! And street smoking, too, has
increased, at a rate, within a year past, that bids fair to make the
Puritan breezes of our evenings as redolent of "smoke and smell," as
meets one's nasal organic faculties upon paying a pop visit to New York.
There is but one idea of useful import that we can advance in favor of
smoking, to any great extent, in our city: consumption and asthmatic
disorders generally are more prevalent here than in other and more
southern climates, and for the protection of the lungs, cigar smoking,
to a moderate extent, may be useful, as well as pleasurable; but an
indiscriminate "looseness" in smoking is not only a dead waste of much
ready money, but injurious to the eyes, teeth, breath, taste, smell, and
all other senses.




An Everlasting Tall Duel


After all the vicissitudes, ups and downs of a soldier's life,
especially in such a campaign as that in Mexico, there is a great deal
of music mixed up with the misery, fun with the fuss and feathers, and
incident enough to last a man the balance of a long lifetime.

While camped at Camargo, the officers and privates of the Ohio volunteer
regiment were paid off one day, and, of course, all who could get
_leave_, started to town, to have a time, and get clear of their hard
earnings.

The Mexicans were some pleased, and greatly illuminated by the
Americans, that and the succeeding day. Several of the officers invested
a portion of their funds in mules and mustangs. Among the rest, Lieut.
Dick Mason and Adjt. Wash. Armstrong set up their private teams. Now, it
so fell out, that one of Armstrong's men stole Mason's mule, and being
caught during the day with the stolen property on him, or he on it, the
high-handed private, (who, barring his propensity to ride in preference
to walking, was a very clever sort of fellow, and rather popular with
the Adjutant,) nabbed him as a hawk would a pip-chicken.

"If I catch the fellow who stole my mule," quoth Lieut. Dick, "I'll give
him a lamming he won't forget soon!"

And, good as his word, when the man was taken, the Lieutenant had him
whipped severely. This riled up Adjt. Wash., who, in good, round,
unvarnished terms, volunteered to lick the Lieutenant--out of his
leathers! From words they came to blows, very expeditiously, and somehow
or other the Lieutenant came out second best--bad licked! This sort of
a finale did not set well upon the stomach of the gallant Lieutenant; so
he ups and writes a challenge to the Adjutant to meet in mortal combat;
and readily finding a second, the challenge was signed, sealed, and
delivered to Adjt. Armstrong, Company ----, Ohio volunteers. All these
preliminaries were carried on in, or very near in, Camargo. The Adjutant
readily accepted the invitation to step out and be shot at; and, having
scared up his second, and having no heirs or assigns, goods, chattels,
or other sublunary matters to adjust, no time was lost in making wills
or leaving posthumous information. The duel went forward with alacrity,
but all of a sudden it was discovered by the several interested parties
that no arms were in the crowd. It would not very well do to go to camp
and look for duelling weapons; so it was proposed to do the best that
could be done under the circumstances, and buy such murderous tools as
could be found at hand, and go into the merits of the case at once. At
length the Adjutant and friend chanced upon a machine supposed to be a
pistol, brought over to the Continent, most probably, by Cortez, in the
year 1--sometime. It was a _scrougin_' thing to hold powder and lead,
and went off once in three times with the intonation of a four-pounder.

"Hang the difference," says the Adjutant; "it will do."

"Must do," the second replies; and so paying for the tool, and
swallowing down a fresh invoice of _ardiente_, the fighting men start to
muster up their opponents, whom they found armed and equipped, upon a
footing equal to the other side, or pretty near it, the Lieutenant
having a little _heavier_ piece, with a bore into which a gill measure
might be thrown.

"But--the difference!" cried seconds and principals.

"Let's fight, not talk," says the Adjutant.

"That's my opinion, gentlemen, exactly," the Lieutenant responds.

"Where shall we go?"

"Anywhere!"

"Better get out into the chaparral," say the cautious seconds; "don't
want a crowd. Come on!" continue the seconds, very valorously; "let's
fight!"

"Here's the ground!" cries one, as the parties reach a chaparral, a mile
or so from town; "here is our ground!"

The principals stared around as if rather uncertain about that, for the
bushes were so thick and high that precious little _ground_ was visible.

"It ain't worth while, gentlemen, to toss up for positions, is it?" says
the Adjutant's second.

"No," cry both principals. "Measure off the _ground_, if you can find
it; let us go to work."

"That's the talk!" says the Adjutant's second.

"Measure off thirty paces," the Lieutenant's second responds.

"No, ten!" cry the principals.

"Twenty paces or no fight!" insists the Adjutant's second. "Twenty
paces; one, two, three----"

And the seconds trod off as best they could the distance, the pieces
were loaded, the several bipeds took a drink all around from an ample
jug of the R. G. they brought for the purpose, and then began the
memorable duel. The principals were placed in their respective
positions, to rake down each other; and from a safer point of the
compass the seconds gave the word.

"Bang-g-g!" went the Adjutant's piece, knocking him down flat as a
hoe-cake.

"F-f-f-izzy!" and the Lieutenant's piece hung fire.

The seconds flew to their men; a parley took place upon a "question"
whether the Lieutenant had a _right_ to prime and fire again, or not.
The Adjutant being set upon his pins; declared himself ready and willing
to let the Lieutenant blaze away! The point was finally settled by
loading up the Adjutant's piece, and priming that of the Lieutenant,
placing the men, and giving the word,

"One, two, three!"

"Wang-g-g-g!"

"Fiz-a-bang-g-g-g!"

The seconds ran, or hobbled forward, each to his man, both being down;
but whether by concussion, recoil of their fusees, force of the liquor,
or weakness of the knee-pans, was a hard fact to solve.

"Hurt, Wash.?"

"Not a bit!" cries the Adjutant, getting up.

"Hit, Dick?"

"No, _sir!_" shouts the Lieutenant; "good as new!"

"Set 'em up!"

"Take your places, gentlemen!" cry the seconds.

All ready. Wang! bang! go the pieces, and down ker-_chug_ go both men
again. The seconds rush forward, raise their men, all safe, load up
again, take a drink, all right.

"Make ready, take aim, fire!"

"Wang-g-g!"

"Bang-g-g!"

Both down again, the Lieutenant's coat-tail slightly dislocated, and the
Adjutant dangerously wounded in the leg of his breeches! Both parties
getting very mad, very tired, and very anxious to try it on at ten
paces. Seconds object, pieces loaded up again, principals arranged, and,

"One, two, three, fire!"

"Wang-g-g-g!"

"Bang-g-g!"

All down--load up again--take a drink--fire! and down they go again. It
is very natural to suppose that all this firing attracted somebody's
attention, and somebody came poking around to see what it was all about;
and just then, as four or five Mexicans came peeping and peering through
the chaparral, Dick and Wash. let drive--Bang-g! wang-g! and though it
seemed impossible to hit one another, the slugs, ricochetting over and
through the chaparral, knocked down two Mexicans, who yelled sanguinary
murder, and the rest of their friends took to their heels. The seconds,
not _quite_ so "tight" as the principals, took warning in time to
evacuate the field of honor, Lieut. Dick's second taking him one way,
and Ajt. Wash.'s friend going another, just as a "Corporal's Guard" made
their appearance to arrest the _rioters_. In spite of the poor Mexicans'
protestations, or endeavors to make out a true case, they were taken up
and carried to the Guard-House, for shooting one another, and raising a
row in general. A night's repose brought the morning's reflection, when
the previous day's performances were laughed at, if not forgotten. Wash,
and Dick became good friends, of course, and cemented the bonds of
fraternity in the bloody work of a day or two afterwards, in storming
Monterey.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE END.

       *       *       *       *       *




  T. B. PETERSON'S LIST OF PUBLICATIONS


               WIDDIFIELD'S

              NEW COOK BOOK:

                    OR,

  PRACTICAL RECEIPTS FOR THE HOUSEWIFE.

                    BY

             HANNAH WIDDIFIELD,

  _Celebrated for many Years for the superiority of every article
     she made, in South Ninth Street, above Spruce, Philadelphia._

Complete in one large duodecimo volume, strongly bound. Price One
Dollar.

There is not a lady living, but should possess themselves of a copy of
this work at once. It will give you all better meals and make your cost
of living less, and keep your husbands, sons, and brothers in an
excellent humor. It is recommended by thousands, and is the _best_ and
only complete Book on all kinds of Cookery extant. It is written so that
all can understand it. It is taking the place of all other Cook Books,
for a person possessing "WIDDIFIELD'S NEW COOK BOOK" needs no other, as
a copy of this is worth all the other books, called Cook Books, in the
World.

_Read what the Editor of the Dollar Newspaper says about it._

"The authoress of this work long enjoyed great celebrity with the best
families in Philadelphia as the most thoroughly informed lady in her
profession in this country. Her Establishment, on Ninth above Spruce
street, has long enjoyed the patronage of the best livers in our city.
The receipts cover almost every variety of cake or dish, and every
species of cooking. One great advantage which this book enjoys over
almost every other is the simplicity with which the ingredients are set
forth, and the comparatively moderate cost at which particular receipts
may be got up. In most cook books the directions cover so large a cost,
that to common livers the directions had almost as well not be given.
This objection has been measurably removed in this new volume. Another
important matter is, no receipts are contained in it but those fully
tested, not only by the author, but by cooks and housekeepers most
competent to judge. The volume opens with directions for soup, for fish,
oysters, meat, poultry, etc. In addition to all this, much attention has
been given to directions for the preparation of dishes for the sick and
convalescent. Mr. Peterson has issued the volume in handsome style,
wisely, as we think, using large type and good paper. The book is sold
at, or will be sent to any part of the Union, free of postage, on
receipt of One Dollar."

_Read what the Editor of the Saturday Evening Post says of it._

"A number of good books on this subject have been published lately, but
this is unquestionably the best that we have ever seen Its superiority
is in the clearness, and brevity, and the practical directness of the
receipts; they are easily understood and followed. The book looks like
what it is, the ripe fruit of many years' successful practice. The
establishment of Mrs. Widdifield has for many years held the first rank
in Philadelphia for the unvarying excellence of every article there
made; and now she crowns her well deserved celebrity by giving to the
world _the best book that has been written on the subject of cookery_.
The clear type in which the publisher presents it is no slight addition
to its value."

_Read what the Editor of the Public Ledger says of it._

"A Valuable Work.--Next to having something to eat is having it cooked
in a style fit to be eaten. Every housekeeper does not understand this
art, and, probably, only for want of a little elementary teaching. This
want is easily supplied, for T. B. Peterson has just published Mrs.
Widdifield's New Cook Book, in which the experience of that celebrated
person in this line is given so clearly and with such precise details,
that any housekeeper of sufficient capacity to undertake the management
of household affairs, can make herself an accomplished caterer for the
table without serving an apprenticeship to the business. The book is
published in one volume, the typography good, and paper excellent, with
as much real useful information in the volume as would be worth a dozen
times its price. Get it at once."

_Read what the Editors' wives think of it._

"It is unquestionably the _best_ Cook Book we have ever
seen."--_Saturday Evening Post._

"It is _the best_ of the many works on Cookery which have appeared. The
receipts are all plain and practical, and have never before appeared in
print."--_Germantown Telegraph._

"It is the _best_ Cook Book out. Every housewife or lady should get a
copy at once."--_Berks Co. Press._

"We have no hesitation in pronouncing it the best work on the subject of
Cookery extant."--_Ladies' National Magazine._

"It is the _very best_ book on Cookery and Receipts published."--_Dollar
Newspaper._

"It is the _very best family Cook Book in existence_, and we cordially
recommend it as such to our readers."--_Evening Bulletin._

"It is _the best Cook Book_ we have ever seen."--_Washington Union._

" Copies of the above celebrated Cook Book will be sent to any one to
any place, _free of postage_, on remitting One Dollar to the Publisher,
in a letter. Published and for sale at the Cheap Bookselling and
Publishing House of

               T. B. PETERSON,

   No. 102 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia.
  _To whom all orders must come addressed._


     BOOKS SENT EVERYWHERE FREE OF POSTAGE.


  BOOKS FOR EVERYBODY AT GREATLY REDUCED RATES.

            PUBLISHED AND FOR SALE BY

                 T. B. PETERSON,

        No. 102 Chestnut Street, Philad'a.

     IN THIS CATALOGUE WILL BE FOUND THE LATEST
       AND BEST WORKS BY THE MOST POPULAR AND
          CELEBRATED WRITERS IN THE WORLD.

              AMONG WHICH WILL BE FOUND

  CHARLES DICKENS'S, MRS. CAROLINE LEE HENTZ'S, SIR E. L. BULWER'S,
    G. P. R. JAMES'S, ELLEN PICKERING'S, CAPTAIN MARRYATT'S, MRS. GREY'S,
    T. S. ARTHUR'S, CHARLES LEVER'S, ALEXANDRE DUMAS', W. HARRISON
    AINSWORTH'S, D'ISRAELI'S, THACKERAY'S, SAMUEL WARREN'S, EMERSON
    BENNETT'S, GEORGE LIPPARD'S, REYNOLDS', C. J. PETERSON'S, PETERSON'S
    HUMOROUS AMERICAN WORKS, HENRY COCKTON'S, EUGENE SUE'S, GEORGE SANDS',
    CURRER BELL'S, AND ALL THE OTHER BEST AUTHORS IN THE WORLD.

  "The best way is to look through the Catalogue, and see what
  books are in it. You will all be amply repaid for your trouble.

SPECIAL NOTICE TO EVERYBODY.--Any person whatever in this country,
wishing any of the works in this Catalogue, on remitting the price of
the ones they wish, in a letter, directed to T. B. Peterson, No. 102
Chestnut Street, Philadelphia, shall have them sent by return of mail,
to any place in the United States, _free of postage_. This is a splendid
offer, as any one can get books to the most remote place in the country,
for the regular price sold in the large cities, _free of postage_, on
sending for them.

" All orders thankfully received and filled with despatch, and sent by
return of mail, or express, or stage, or in any other way the person
ordering may direct. Booksellers, News Agents, Pedlars, and all others
supplied with any works published in the world, at the lowest rates.

" Any Book published, or advertised by any one, can be had here.

" Agents, Pedlars, Canvassers, Booksellers, News Agents, &c., throughout
the country, who wish to make money on a small capital, would do well to
address the undersigned, who will furnish a complete outfit for a
comparatively small amount. Send by all means, for whatever books you
may wish, to the Publishing and Bookselling Establishment of

T. B. PETERSON, No. 102 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia.


                        T. B. PETERSON,

            No. 102 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia,

               HAS JUST PUBLISHED AND FOR SALE,

          STEREOTYPE EDITIONS OF THE FOLLOWING WORKS,

    Which will be found to be the Best and Latest Publications,
      by the Most Popular and Celebrated Writers in the World.

  Every work published for Sale here, either at Wholesale or Retail.

  All Books in this Catalogue will be sent to any one to any place,
       per mail, _free of postage_, on receipt of the price.


MRS. SOUTHWORTH'S Celebrated WORKS.

With a beautiful Illustration in each volume.

INDIA. THE PEARL OF PEARL RIVER. By Mrs. Emma D. E. N. Southworth. This
is her new work, and is equal to any of her previous ones. Complete in
two large volumes, paper cover. Price One Dollar; or bound in one
volume, cloth, for $1,25.

THE MISSING BRIDE; OR, MIRIAM THE AVENGER. By Mrs. Emma D. E. N.
Southworth. Complete in two volumes, paper cover. Price One Dollar; or
bound in one volume, cloth, for $1,25.

THE LOST HEIRESS. By Mrs. Emma D. E. N. Southworth. Being a Splendid
Picture of American Life. It is a work of powerful interest. It is
embellished with a beautiful Portrait and Autograph of the author.
Complete in two vols., paper cover. Price One Dollar; or bound in one
volume, cloth, for One Dollar and Twenty-five cents.

THE WIFE'S VICTORY; AND NINE OTHER NOUVELLETTES. By Mrs. Emma D. E. N.
Southworth. Complete in two volumes, paper cover. Price One Dollar; or
bound in one volume, cloth, for $1,25.

THE CURSE OF CLIFTON. By Mrs. Emma D. E. N. Southworth. Complete in two
volumes, paper cover. Price One Dollar; or bound in one volume, cloth,
gilt, for One Dollar and Twenty-five cents.

THE DISCARDED DAUGHTER. By Mrs. Emma D. E. N. Southworth. Complete in
two volumes, paper cover. Price One Dollar; or bound in cloth, gilt, for
One Dollar and Twenty-five cents.

THE DESERTED WIFE. By Mrs. Emma D. E. N. Southworth. Complete in two
volumes, paper cover. Price One Dollar; or bound in one volume, cloth,
gilt, for One Dollar and Twenty-five cents.

THE INITIALS. A LOVE STORY OF MODERN LIFE. By a daughter of the
celebrated Lord Erskine, formerly Lord High Chancellor of England. This
is a celebrated and world-renowned work. It is one of the best works
ever published in the English language, and will be read for generations
to come, and rank by the side of Sir Walter Scott's celebrated novels.
Complete in two volumes, paper cover. Price One Dollar; or bound in one
volume, cloth, gilt, for One Dollar and Twenty-five cents a copy.


CHARLES DICKENS' WORKS.

The best and most popular in the world. Ten different editions. No
Library can be complete without a Sett of these Works. Reprinted from
the Author's last Editions.

"PETERSON'S" is the only complete and uniform edition of Charles
Dickens' works published in America; they are reprinted from the
original London editions, and are now the only edition published in this
country. No library, either public or private, can be complete without
having in it a complete sett of the works of this, the greatest of all
living authors. Every family should possess a sett of one of the
editions. The cheap edition is complete in Twelve Volumes, paper cover;
either or all of which can be had separately. Price Fifty cents each.
The following are their names.

  DAVID COPPERFIELD,
  NICHOLAS NICKLEBY,
  PICKWICK PAPERS,
  DOMBEY AND SON,
  MARTIN CHUZZLEWIT,
  BARNABY RUDGE,
  OLD CURIOSITY SHOP,
  SKETCHES BY "BOZ,"
  OLIVER TWIST
  BLEAK HOUSE

DICKENS' NEW STORIES. Containing The Seven Poor Travellers. Nine New
Stories by the Christmas Fire. Hard Times. Lizzie Leigh. The Miner's
Daughters, etc.

CHRISTMAS STORIES. Containing--A Christmas Carol. The Chimes. Cricket on
the Hearth. Battle of Life. Haunted Man, and Pictures from Italy.

A complete sett of the above edition, twelve volumes in all, will be
sent to any one to any place, _free of postage_, for Five Dollars.

COMPLETE LIBRARY EDITION.

In FIVE large octavo volumes, with a Portrait, on Steel, of Charles
Dickens, containing over Four Thousand very large pages, handsomely
printed, and bound in various styles.

Volume 1 contains Pickwick Papers and Curiosity Shop.

   "   2    do.   Oliver Twist, Sketches by "Boz," and Barnaby Rudge.

   "   3    do.   Nicholas Nickleby and Martin Chuzzlewit.

   "   4    do.   David Copperfield, Dombey and Son, Christmas Stories,
                    and Pictures from Italy.

   "   5    do.   Bleak House, and Dickens' New Stories. Containing The
                    Seven Poor Travellers. Nine New Stories
                    by the Christmas Fire. Hard Times. Lizzie
                    Leigh. The Miner's Daughters, and Fortune
                    Wildred, etc.

Price of a complete sett. Bound in Black cloth, full gilt back,  $7.50

    "        "              "      scarlet cloth, extra,          8 50

    "        "              "      library sheep,                 9 00

    "        "              "      half turkey morocco,          11 00

    "        "              "      half calf, antique,           15 00

          " _Illustrated Edition is described on next page._ "


ILLUSTRATED EDITION OF DICKENS' WORKS.

This edition is printed on very thick and fine white paper, and is
profusely illustrated, with all the original illustrations by
Cruikshank, Alfred Crowquill, Phiz, etc., from the original London
edition, on copper, steel, and wood. Each volume contains a novel
complete, and may be had in complete setts, beautifully bound in cloth,
for Eighteen Dollars for the sett in twelve volumes, or any volume will
be sold separately, as follows:

  BLEAK HOUSE,            _Price_, $1 50
  PICKWICK PAPERS,                  1 50
  OLD CURIOSITY SHOP,               1 50
  OLIVER TWIST,                     1 50
  SKETCHES BY "BOZ,"                1 50
  BARNABY RUDGE,                    1 50
  NICHOLAS NICKLEBY,                1 50
  MARTIN CHUZZLEWIT,                1 50
  DAVID COPPERFIELD,                1 50
  DOMBEY AND SON,                   1 50
  CHRISTMAS STORIES,                1 50
  DICKENS' NEW STORIES,             1 50

Price of a complete sett of the Illustrated Edition, in twelve vols., in
black cloth, gilt back, $18,00

Price of a complete sett of the Illustrated Edition, in twelve vols., in
full law library sheep, $24,00

Price of a complete sett of the Illustrated edition, in twelve vols., in
half turkey Morocco, $27,00

Price of a complete sett of the Illustrated Edition, in twelve vols., in
half calf, antique, $36,00

_All subsequent work by Charles Dickens will be issued in uniform style
with all the previous ten different editions._


CAPTAIN MARRYATT'S WORKS.

Either of which can be had separately. Price of all except the four last
is 25 cents each. They are printed on the finest white paper, and each
forms one large octavo volume, complete in itself.

  PETER SIMPLE.
  JACOB FAITHFUL.
  THE PHANTOM SHIP.
  MIDSHIPMAN EASY.
  KING'S OWN.
  NEWTON FORSTER.
  JAPHET IN SEARCH OF A FATHER.
  PACHA OF MANY TALES.
  NAVAL OFFICER.
  PIRATE AND THREE CUTTERS.
  SNARLEYYOW; or, the Dog-Fiend.
  PERCIVAL KEENE. Price 50 cts.
  POOR JACK. Price 50 cents.
  SEA KING. 200 pages. Price 50 cents.
  VALERIE. His last Novel. Price 50 cents.


ELLEN PICKERING'S NOVELS.

Either of which can be had separately. Price 25 cents each. They are
printed on the finest white paper, and each forms one large octavo
volume, complete in itself, neatly bound in a strong paper cover.

  THE ORPHAN NIECE.
  KATE WALSINGHAM.
  THE POOR COUSIN.
  ELLEN WAREHAM.
  THE QUIET HUSBAND.
  WHO SHALL BE HEIR?
  THE SECRET FOE.
  AGNES SERLE.
  THE HEIRESS.
  PRINCE AND PEDLER.
  MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER.
  THE FRIGHT.
  NAN DARRELL.
  THE SQUIRE.
  THE EXPECTANT.
  THE GRUMBLER. 50 cts.


MRS. CAROLINE LEE HENTZ'S WORKS.

COURTSHIP AND MARRIAGE; OR, THE JOYS AND SORROWS OF AMERICAN LIFE. With
a Portrait of the Author. Complete in two large volumes, paper cover,
price One Dollar, or bound in one volume, cloth gilt, for One Dollar and
Twenty-five cents.

THE PLANTER'S NORTHERN BRIDE. With illustrations. Complete in two large
volumes, paper cover, 600 pages, price One Dollar, or bound in one
volume, cloth gilt, One Dollar and Twenty-five cents.

LINDA; OR, THE YOUNG PILOT OF THE BELLE CREOLE. Complete in two volumes,
paper cover, price One Dollar, or bound in one volume, cloth gilt, for
One Dollar and Twenty-five cents.

ROBERT GRAHAM. The Sequel to, and continuation of Linda. Being the last
book but one that Mrs. Hentz wrote prior to her death. Complete in two
large volumes, paper cover, price One Dollar, or bound in one volume,
for cloth gilt, One Dollar and Twenty-five cents.

RENA; OR, THE SNOW BIRD. A Tale of Real Life. Complete in two volumes,
paper cover, price One Dollar, or bound in one volume, cloth gilt, for
One Dollar and Twenty-five cents.

MARCUS WARLAND; OR, THE LONG MOSS SPRING. A Tale of the South. Complete
in two volumes, paper cover, price One Dollar, or bound in one volume,
cloth gilt, One Dollar and Twenty-five cents.

LOVE AFTER MARRIAGE; and other Stories. Complete in two volumes, paper
cover, price One Dollar, or bound in one volume, cloth gilt, for One
Dollar and Twenty-five cents.

EOLINE; OR, MAGNOLIA VALE. Complete in two volumes, paper cover, price
One Dollar, or bound in one volume, cloth gilt, $1 25.

THE BANISHED SON; and other Stories. Complete in two volumes, paper
cover, price One Dollar, or bound in one volume, cloth gilt, $1 25.

HELEN AND ARTHUR. Complete in two volumes, paper cover, price One
Dollar, or bound in one volume, cloth gilt, $1 25.

AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP BAG, together with large additions to it, written by
Mrs. Hentz, prior to her death, and never before published in any other
edition of this or any other work than this. Complete in two volumes,
paper cover, price One Dollar, or bound in one volume, cloth gilt, for
One Dollar and Twenty-five cents.


T. S. ARTHUR'S WORKS.

Either of which can be had separately. Price 25 cents each. They are the
most moral, popular and entertaining in the world. There are no better
books to place in the hands of the young. All will profit by them.

  YEAR AFTER MARRIAGE.
  THE DIVORCED WIFE.
  THE BANKER'S WIFE.
  PRIDE AND PRUDENCE.
  CECILIA HOWARD.
  MARY MORETON.
  LOVE IN A COTTAGE.
  LOVE IN HIGH LIFE.
  THE TWO MERCHANTS.
  LADY AT HOME.
  TRIAL AND TRIUMPH.
  THE ORPHAN CHILDREN.
  THE DEBTOR'S DAUGHTER.
  INSUBORDINATION.
  LUCY SANDFORD.
  AGNES, or the Possessed.
  THE TWO BRIDES.
  THE IRON RULE.
  THE OLD ASTROLOGER.
  THE SEAMSTRESS.


CHARLES LEVER'S NOVELS.

CHARLES O'MALLEY, the Irish Dragoon. By Charles Lever. Complete in one
large octavo volume of 324 pages. Price Fifty cents; or an edition on
finer paper, bound in cloth, illustrated. Price One Dollar.

THE KNIGHT OF GWYNNE. A tale of the time of the Union. By Charles Lever.
Complete in one fine octavo volume. Price Fifty cents; or an edition on
finer paper, bound in cloth, illustrated. Price One Dollar.

JACK HINTON, the Guardsman. By Charles Lever. Complete in one large
octavo volume of 400 pages. Price Fifty cents; or an edition on finer
paper, bound in cloth, illustrated. Price One Dollar.

TOM BURKE OF OURS. By Charles Lever. Complete in one large octavo volume
of 300 pages. Price Fifty cents; or an edition on finer paper, bound in
cloth, illustrated. Price One Dollar.

ARTHUR O LEARY. By Charles Lever. Complete in one large octavo volume.
Price Fifty cents; or an edition on finer paper, bound in cloth,
illustrated. Price One Dollar.

KATE O'DONOGHUE. A Tale of Ireland. By Charles Lever. Complete in one
large octavo volume. Price Fifty cents; or an edition on finer paper,
bound in cloth, illustrated. Price One Dollar.

HORACE TEMPLETON. By Charles Lever. This is Lever's New Book. Complete
in one large octavo volume. Price Fifty cents; or an edition on finer
paper, bound in cloth, illustrated. Price One Dollar.

HARRY LORREQUER. By Charles Lever, author of the above seven works.
Complete in one octavo volume of 402 pages. Price Fifty cents; or an
edition on finer paper, bound in cloth, illustrated. Price One Dollar.

VALENTINE VOX.--LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF VALENTINE VOX, the Ventriloquist.
By Henry Cockton. One of the most humorous books ever published. Price
Fifty cents; or an edition on finer paper, bound in cloth. Price One
Dollar.

PERCY EFFINGHAM. By Henry Cockton, author of "Valentine Vox, the
Ventriloquist." One large octavo volume. Price 50 cents.

TEN THOUSAND A YEAR. By Samuel C. Warren. With Portraits of Snap, Quirk,
Gammon, and Tittlebat Titmouse, Esq. Two large octavo vols., of 547
pages. Price One Dollar; or an edition on finer paper, bound in cloth,
$1,50.


CHARLES J. PETERSON'S WORKS.

KATE AYLESFORD. A story of the Refugees. One of the most popular books
ever printed. Complete in two large volumes, paper cover. Price One
Dollar; or bound in one volume, cloth, gilt. Price $1 25.

CRUISING IN THE LAST WAR. A Naval Story of the War of 1812. First and
Second Series. Being the complete work, unabridged. By Charles J.
Peterson. 228 octavo pages. Price 50 cents.

GRACE DUDLEY; OR, ARNOLD AT SARATOGA. By Charles J. Peterson.
Illustrated. Price 25 cents.

THE VALLEY FARM; OR, the AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ORPHAN. A companion to Jane
Eyre. Price 25 cents.


EUGENE SUE'S NOVELS.

THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS; AND GEROLSTEIN, the Sequel to it. By Eugene Sue,
author of the "Wandering Jew," and the greatest work ever written. With
illustrations. Complete in two large volumes, octavo. Price One Dollar.

THE ILLUSTRATED WANDERING JEW. By Eugene Sue. With 87 large
illustrations. Two large octavo volumes. Price One Dollar.

THE FEMALE BLUEBEARD; or, the Woman with many Husbands. By Eugene Sue.
Price Twenty-five cents.

FIRST LOVE. A Story of the Heart. By Eugene Sue. Price Twenty-five
cents.

WOMAN'S LOVE. A Novel. By Eugene Sue. Illustrated. Price Twenty-five
cents.

MAN-OF-WAR'S-MAN. A Tale of the Sea. By Eugene Sue. Price Twenty-five
cents.

RAOUL DE SURVILLE; or, the Times of Napoleon Bonaparte in 1810. Price
Twenty-five cents.


SIR E. L. BULWER'S NOVELS.

FALKLAND. A Novel. By Sir E. L. Bulwer, author of "The Roue,"
"Oxonians," etc. One volume, octavo. Price 25 cents.

THE ROUE; OR THE HAZARDS OF WOMEN. Price 25 cents.

THE OXONIANS. A Sequel to the Roue. Price 25 cents.

CALDERON THE COURTIER. By Bulwer. Price 12-1/2 cents.


MRS. GREY'S NOVELS.

Either of which can be had separately. Price 25 cents each. They are
printed on the finest white paper, and each forms one large octavo
volume, complete in itself, neatly bound in a strong paper cover.

  DUKE AND THE COUSIN.
  GIPSY'S DAUGHTER.
  BELLE OF THE FAMILY.
  SYBIL LENNARD.
  THE LITTLE WIFE.
  MAN[OE]UVRING MOTHER.
  LENA CAMERON: or, the Four Sisters.
  THE BARONET'S DAUGHTERS.
  THE YOUNG PRIMA DONNA.
  THE OLD DOWER HOUSE.
  HYACINTHE.
  ALICE SEYMOUR.
  HARRY MONK.
  MARY SEAHAM. 250 pages. Price 50 cents.
  PASSION AND PRINCIPLE. 200 pages. Price 50 cents.


GEORGE W. M. REYNOLD'S WORKS.

THE NECROMANCER. A Romance of the times of Henry the Eighth, By G. W. M.
Reynolds. One large volume. Price 75 cents.

THE PARRICIDE; OR, THE YOUTH'S CAREER IN CRIME. By G. W. M. Reynolds.
Full of beautiful illustrations. Price 50 cents.

LIFE IN PARIS: OR, THE ADVENTURES OF ALFRED DE ROSANN IN THE METROPOLIS
OF FRANCE. By G. W. M. Reynolds. Full of Engravings. Price 50 cents.


AINSWORTH'S WORKS.

JACK SHEPPARD.--PICTORIAL LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF JACK SHEPPARD, the most
noted burglar, robber, and jail breaker, that ever lived. Embellished
with Thirty-nine, full page, spirited Illustrations, designed and
engraved in the finest style of art, by George Cruikshank, Esq., of
London. Price Fifty cents.

ILLUSTRATED TOWER OF LONDON. With 100 splendid engravings. This is
beyond all doubt one of the most interesting works ever published in the
known world, and can be read and re-read with pleasure and satisfaction
by everybody. We advise all persons to get it and read it. Two volumes,
octavo. Price One Dollar.

PICTORIAL LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF GUY FAWKES, The Chief of the Gunpowder
Treason. The Bloody Tower, etc. Illustrated. By William Harrison
Ainsworth. 200 pages. Price Fifty cents.

THE STAR CHAMBER. An Historical Romance. By W. Harrison Ainsworth. With
17 large full page illustrations. Price 50 cents.

THE PICTORIAL OLD ST. PAUL'S. By William Harrison Ainsworth. Full of
Illustrations. Price Fifty cents.

MYSTERIES OF THE COURT OF QUEEN ANNE. By William Harrison Ainsworth.
Price Fifty cents.

MYSTERIES OF THE COURT OF THE STUARTS. By Ainsworth. Being one of the
most interesting Historical Romances ever written. One large volume.
Price Fifty cents.

DICK TURPIN.--ILLUSTRATED LIFE OF DICK TURPIN, the Highwayman, Burglar,
Murderer, etc. Price Twenty-five cents.

HENRY THOMAS.--LIFE OF HARRY THOMAS, the Western Burglar and Murderer.
Full of Engravings. Price Twenty-five cents.

DESPERADOES.--ILLUSTRATED LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF THE DESPERADOES OF THE
NEW WORLD. Full of engravings. Price Twenty-five cents.

NINON DE L'ENCLOS.--LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF NINON DE L'ENCLOS, with her
Letters on Love, Courtship and Marriage. Illustrated. Price Twenty-five
cents.

THE PICTORIAL NEWGATE CALENDAR; or the Chronicles of Crime. Beautifully
illustrated with Fifteen Engravings. Price Fifty cents.

PICTORIAL LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF DAVY CROCKETT. Written by himself.
Beautifully illustrated. Price Fifty cents.

LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF ARTHUR SPRING, the murderer of Mrs. Ellen Lynch
and Mrs. Honora Shaw, with a complete history of his life and misdeeds,
from the time of his birth until he was hung. Illustrated with
portraits. Price Twenty-five cents.

JACK ADAMS.--PICTORIAL LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF JACK ADAMS; the celebrated
Sailor and Mutineer. By Captain Chamier, author of "The Spitfire." Full
of illustrations. Price Fifty cents.

GRACE O'MALLEY.--PICTORIAL LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF GRACE O'MALLEY. By
William H. Maxwell, author of "Wild Sports in the West." Price Fifty
cents.

THE PIRATE'S SON. A Sea Novel of great interest. Full of beautiful
illustrations. Price Twenty-five cents.


ALEXANDER DUMAS' WORKS.

THE IRON MASK, OR THE FEATS AND ADVENTURES OF RAOULE DE BRAGELONNE.
Being the conclusion of "The Three Guardsmen," "Twenty Years After," and
"Bragelonne." By Alexandre Dumas. Complete in two large volumes, of 420
octavo pages, with beautifully Illustrated Covers, Portraits, and
Engravings. Price One Dollar.

LOUISE LA VALLIERE; OR THE SECOND SERIES AND FINAL END OF THE IRON MASK.
By Alexandre Dumas. This work is the final end of "The Three Guardsmen,"
"Twenty Years After," "Bragelonne," and "The Iron Mask," and is of far
more interesting and absorbing interest, than any of its predecessors.
Complete in two large octavo volumes of over 400 pages, printed on the
best of paper, beautifully illustrated. It also contains correct
Portraits of "Louise La Valliere," and "The Hero of the Iron Mask."
Price One Dollar.

THE MEMOIRS OF A PHYSICIAN; OR THE SECRET HISTORY OF LOUIS THE
FIFTEENTH. By Alexandre Dumas. It is beautifully embellished with thirty
engravings, which illustrate the principal scenes and characters of the
different heroines throughout the work. Complete in two large octavo
volumes. Price One Dollar.

THE QUEEN'S NECKLACE: OR THE SECRET HISTORY OF THE COURT OF LOUIS THE
SIXTEENTH. A Sequel to the Memoirs of a Physician. By Alexandre Dumas.
It is beautifully illustrated with portraits of the heroines of the
work. Complete in two large octavo volumes of over 400 pages. Price One
Dollar.

SIX YEARS LATER; OR THE TAKING OF THE BASTILE. By Alexandre Dumas. Being
the continuation of "The Queen's Necklace; or the Secret History of the
Court of Louis the Sixteenth," and "Memoirs of a Physician." Complete in
one large octavo volume. Price Seventy-five cents.

COUNTESS DE CHARNY; OR THE FALL OF THE FRENCH MONARCHY. By Alexandre
Dumas. This work is the final conclusion of the "Memoirs of a
Physician," "The Queen's Necklace," and "Six Years Later, or Taking of
the Bastile." All persons who have not read Dumas in this, his greatest
and most instructive production, should begin at once, and no pleasure
will be found so agreeable, and nothing in novel form so useful and
absorbing. Complete in two volumes, beautifully illustrated. Price One
Dollar.

DIANA OF MERIDOR; THE LADY OF MONSOREAU; or France in the Sixteenth
Century. By Alexandre Dumas. An Historical Romance. Complete in two
large octavo volumes of 538 pages, with numerous illustrative
engravings. Price One Dollar.

ISABEL OF BAVARIA; or the Chronicles of France for the reign of Charles
the Sixth. Complete in one fine octavo volume of 211 pages, printed on
the finest white paper. Price Fifty cents.

EDMOND DANTES. Being the sequel to Dumas' celebrated novel of the Count
of Monte Cristo. With elegant illustrations. Complete in one large
octavo volume of over 200 pages. Price Fifty cents.

THE CORSICAN BROTHERS. This work has already been dramatized, and is now
played in all the theatres of Europe and in this country, and it is
exciting an extraordinary interest. Price Twenty-five cents.

SKETCHES IN FRANCE. By Alexandre Dumas. It is as good a book as
Thackeray's Sketches in Ireland. Dumas never wrote a better book. It is
the most delightful book of the season. Price Fifty cents.

GENEVIEVE, OR THE CHEVALIER OF THE MAISON ROUGE. By Alexandre Dumas. An
Historical Romance of the French Revolution. Complete in one large
octavo volume of over 200 pages, with numerous illustrative engravings.
Price Fifty cents.


GEORGE LIPPARD'S WORKS.

WASHINGTON AND HIS GENERALS; or, Legends of the American Revolution.
Complete in two large octavo volumes of 538 pages, printed on the finest
white paper. Price One Dollar.

THE QUAKER CITY; or, the Monks of Monk Hall. A Romance of Philadelphia
Life, Mystery and Crime. Illustrated with numerous Engravings. Complete
in two large octavo volumes of 500 pages. Price One Dollar.

THE LADYE OF ALBARONE; or, the Poison Goblet. A Romance of the Dark
Ages. Lippard's Last Work, and never before published. Complete in one
large octavo volume. Price Seventy-five cents.

PAUL ARDENHEIM; the Monk of Wissahickon. A Romance of the Revolution.
Illustrated with numerous engravings. Complete in, two large octavo
volumes, of nearly 600 pages. Price One Dollar.

BLANCHE OF BRANDYWINE; or, September the Eleventh, 1777. A Romance of
the Poetry, Legends, and History of the Battle of Brandywine. It makes a
large octavo volume of 350 pages, printed on the finest white paper.
Price Seventy-five cents.

LEGENDS OF MEXICO; or, Battles of General Zachary Taylor, late President
of the United States. Complete in one octavo volume of 128 pages. Price
Twenty-five cents.

THE NAZARENE; or, the Last of the Washingtons. A Revelation of
Philadelphia, New York, and Washington, in the year 1844. Complete in
one volume. Price Fifty cents.


B. D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS.

VIVIAN GREY. By B. D'Israeli, M. P. Complete in one large octavo volume
of 225 pages. Price Fifty cents.

THE YOUNG DUKE; or the younger days of George the Fourth. By B.
D'Israeli, M. P. One octavo volume. Price Thirty-eight cents.

VENETIA; or, Lord Byron and his Daughter. By B. D'Israeli, M. P.
Complete in one large octavo volume. Price Fifty cents.

HENRIETTA TEMPLE. A Love Story. By B. D'Israeli, M. P. Complete in one
large octavo volume. Price Fifty cents.

CONTARINA FLEMING. An Autobiography. By B. D'Israeli, M. P. One volume,
octavo. Price Thirty-eight cents.

MIRIAM ALROY. A Romance of the Twelfth Century. By B. D'Israeli, M. P.
One volume octavo. Price Thirty-eight cents.


EMERSON BENNETT'S WORKS.

CLARA MORELAND. This is a powerfully written romance. The characters are
boldly drawn, the plot striking, the incidents replete with thrilling
interest, and the language and descriptions natural and graphic, as are
all of Mr. Bennett's Works. 330 pages. Price 50 cents in paper cover, or
One Dollar in cloth, gilt.

VIOLA; OR, ADVENTURES IN THE FAR SOUTH-WEST. Complete in one large
volume. Price 50 cents in paper cover, or 75 cents in cloth, gilt.

THE FORGED WILL. Complete in one large volume, of over 300 pages, paper
cover, price 50 cents; or bound in cloth, gilt, price $1 00.

KATE CLARENDON; OR, NECROMANCY IN THE WILDERNESS. Price 50 cents in
paper cover, or 75 cents in cloth, gilt.

BRIDE OF THE WILDERNESS. Complete in one large volume. Price 50 cents in
paper cover, or 75 cents in cloth, gilt.

THE PIONEER'S DAUGHTER; and THE UNKNOWN COUNTESS. By Emerson Bennett.
Price 50 cents.

HEIRESS OF BELLEFONTE: and WALDE-WARREN. A Tale of Circumstantial
Evidence. By Emerson Bennett. Price 50 cents.

ELLEN NORBURY; OR, THE ADVENTURES OF AN ORPHAN. Complete in one large
volume, price 50 cents in paper cover, or in cloth gilt, $1 00.


MISS LESLIE'S NEW COOK BOOK.

MISS LESLIE'S NEW RECEIPTS FOR COOKING. Comprising new and approved
methods of preparing all kinds of soups, fish, oysters, terrapins,
turtle, vegetables, meats, poultry, game, sauces, pickles, sweet meats,
cakes, pies, puddings, confectionery, rice, Indian meal preparations of
all kinds, domestic liquors, perfumery, remedies, laundry-work,
needle-work, letters, additional receipts, etc. Also, list of articles
suited to go together for breakfasts, dinners, and suppers, and much
useful information and many miscellaneous subjects connected with
general house-wifery. It is an elegantly printed duodecimo volume of 520
pages; and in it there will be found _One Thousand and Eleven new
Receipts_--all useful--some ornamental--and all invaluable to every
lady, miss, or family in the world. This work has had a very extensive
sale, and many thousand copies have been sold, and the demand is
increasing yearly, being the most complete work of the kind published in
the world, and also the latest and best, as, in addition to Cookery, its
receipts for making cakes and confectionery are unequalled by any other
work extant. New edition, enlarged and improved, and handsomely bound.
Price One Dollar a copy only. This is the only new Cook Book by Miss
Leslie.


GEORGE SANDS' WORKS.

FIRST AND TRUE LOVE. A True Love Story. By George Sand, author of
"Consuelo," "Indiana," etc. It is one of the most charming and
interesting works ever published. Illustrated. Price 50 cents.

INDIANA. By George Sand, author of "First and True Love," etc. A very
bewitching and interesting work. Price 50 cents.

THE CORSAIR. A Venetian Tale. Price 25 cents.


HUMOROUS AMERICAN WORKS.

WITH ORIGINAL ILLUSTRATIONS BY DARLEY AND OTHERS, AND BEAUTIFULLY
ILLUMINATED COVERS.

We have just published new and beautiful editions of the following
HUMOROUS AMERICAN WORKS. They are published in the best possible style,
full of original Illustrations, by Darley, descriptive of all the best
scenes in each work, with Illuminated Covers, with new and beautiful
designs on each, and are printed on the finest and best of white paper.
There are no works to compare with them in point of wit and humor, in
the whole world. The price of each work is Fifty cents only.

THE FOLLOWING ARE THE NAMES OF THE WORKS.

MAJOR JONES' COURTSHIP: detailed, with other Scenes, Incidents, and
Adventures, in a Series of Letters, by himself. With Thirteen
Illustrations from designs by Darley. Price Fifty cents.

DRAMA IN POKERVILLE: the Bench and Bar of Jurytown, and other Stories.
By "Everpoint," (J. M. Field, of the St. Louis Reveille.) With
Illustrations from designs by Darley. Fifty cents.

CHARCOAL SKETCHES, or, Scenes in the Metropolis. By Joseph C. Neal,
author of "Peter Ploddy," "Misfortunes of Peter Faber," etc. With
Illustrations. Price Fifty cents.

YANKEE AMONGST THE MERMAIDS, and other Waggeries and Vagaries. By W. E.
Burton, Comedian. With Illustrations by Darley. Price Fifty cents.

MISFORTUNES OF PETER FABER, and other Sketches. By the author of
"Charcoal Sketches." With Illustrations by Darley and others. Price
Fifty cents.

MAJOR JONES' SKETCHES OF TRAVEL, comprising the Scenes, Incidents, and
Adventures in his Tour from Georgia to Canada. With Eight Illustrations
from Designs by Darley. Price Fifty cents.

STREAKS OF SQUATTER LIFE, and Far West Scenes. A Series of humorous
Sketches, descriptive of Incidents and Character in the Wild West. By
the author of "Major Jones' Courtship," "Swallowing Oysters Alive," etc.
With Illustrations from designs by Darley, Price Fifty cents.

QUARTER RACE IN KENTUCKY, AND OTHER STORIES. By W. T. Porter, Esq., of
the New York Spirit of the Times. With Eight Illustrations and designs
by Darley. Complete in one volume. Price Fifty cents.

SIMON SUGGS.--ADVENTURES OF CAPTAIN SIMON SUGGS, late of the Tallapoosa
Volunteers, together with "Taking the Census," and other Alabama
Sketches. By a Country Editor. With a Portrait from Life, and Nine other
Illustrations by Darley. Price Fifty cents.

RIVAL BELLES. By J. B. Jones, author of "Wild Western Scenes," etc. This
is a very humorous and entertaining work, and one that will be
recommended by all after reading it. Price Fifty cents.

YANKEE YARNS AND YANKEE LETTERS. By Sam Slick, alias Judge Haliburton.
Full of the drollest humor that has ever emanated from the pen of any
author. Every page will set you in a roar. Price Fifty cents.

LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF COL. VANDERBOMB, AND THE EXPLOITS OF HIS PRIVATE
SECRETARY. By J. B. Jones, author of "The Rival Belles," "Wild Western
Scenes," etc. Price Fifty cents.

BIG BEAR OF ARKANSAS, and other Sketches, illustrative of Characters and
Incidents in the South and South-West. Edited by Wm. T. Porter. With
Illustrations by Darley. Price Fifty cents.

MAJOR JONES' CHRONICLES OF PINEVILLE; embracing Sketches of Georgia
Scenes, Incidents, and Characters. By the author of "Major Jones'
Courtship," etc. With Illustrations by Darley. Price Fifty cents.

LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF PERCIVAL MABERRY. By J. H. Ingraham. It will
interest and please everybody. All who enjoy a good laugh should get it
at once. Price Fifty cents.

FRANK FORESTER'S QUORNDON HOUNDS; or, A Virginian at Melton Mowbray. By
H. W. Herbert, Esq. With Illustrations. Price Fifty cents.

PICKINGS FROM THE PORTFOLIO OF THE REPORTER OF THE "NEW ORLEANS
PICAYUNE." Comprising Sketches of the Eastern Yankee, the Western
Hoosier, and such others as make up society in the great Metropolis of
the South. With Illustrations by Darley. Price Fifty cents.

FRANK FORESTER'S SHOOTING BOX. By the author of "The Quorndon Hounds,"
"The Deer Stalkers," etc. With Illustrations by Darley. Price Fifty
cents.

STRAY SUBJECTS ARRESTED AND BOUND OVER; being the Fugitive Offspring of
the "Old Un" and the "Young Un," that have been "Laying Around Loose,"
and are now "tied up" for fast keeping. With Illustrations by Darley.
Price Fifty cents.

FRANK FORESTER'S DEER STALKERS; a Tale of Circumstantial evidence. By
the author of "My Shooting Box," "The Quorndon Hounds," etc. With
Illustrations. Price Fifty cents.

ADVENTURES OF CAPTAIN FARRAGO. By Hon. H. H. Brackenridge. For Sixteen
years one of the Judges of the Supreme Court of the State of
Pennsylvania. With Illustrations from designs by Darley. Price Fifty
cents.

THE CHARMS OF PARIS; or, Sketches of Travel and Adventures by Night and
Day, of a Gentleman of Fortune and Leisure. From his private journal.
Price Fifty cents.

PETER PLODDY, and other oddities. By the author of "Charcoal Sketches,"
"Peter Faber," &c. With Illustrations from original designs, by Darley.
Price Fifty cents.

WIDOW RUGBY'S HUSBAND, a Night at the Ugly Man's, and other Tales of
Alabama. By author of "Simon Suggs." With original Illustrations. Price
Fifty cents.

MAJOR O'REGAN'S ADVENTURES. By Hon. H. H. Brackenridge. With
Illustrations by Darley. Price Fifty cents.

SOL. SMITH; THEATRICAL APPRENTICESHIP AND ANECDOTAL RECOLLECTIONS OF
SOL. SMITH, Esq., Comedian, Lawyer, etc. Illustrated by Darley.
Containing Early Scenes, Wanderings in the West, Cincinnati in Early
Life, etc. Price Fifty cents.

SOL. SMITH'S NEW BOOK; THE THEATRICAL JOURNEY-WORK AND ANECDOTAL
RECOLLECTIONS OF SOL. SMITH, Esq., with a portrait of Sol. Smith. It
comprises a Sketch of the second Seven years of his professional life,
together with some Sketches of Adventure in after years. Price Fifty
cents.

POLLY PEABLOSSOM'S WEDDING, and other Tales. By the author of "Major
Jones' Courtship," "Streaks of Squatter Life," etc. Price Fifty cents.

FRANK FORESTER'S WARWICK WOODLANDS; or, Things as they were Twenty Years
Ago. By the author of "The Quorndon Hounds," "My Shooting Box," "The
Deer Stalkers," etc. With Illustrations, illuminated. Price Fifty cents.

LOUISIANA SWAMP DOCTOR. By Madison Tensas, M. D., Ex. V. P. M. S. U. Ky.
Author of "Cupping on the Sternum." With Illustrations by Darley. Price
Fifty cents.

NEW ORLEANS SKETCH BOOK, by "Stahl," author of the "Portfolio of a
Southern Medical Student." With Illustrations from designs by Darley.
Price Fifty cents.


FRENCH, GERMAN, SPANISH, LATIN, AND ITALIAN LANGUAGES.

Any person unacquainted with either of the above languages, can, with
the aid of these works, be enabled to _read_, _write_ and _speak_ the
language of either, without the aid of a teacher or any oral instruction
whatever, provided they pay strict attention to the instructions laid
down in each book, and that nothing shall be passed over, without a
thorough investigation of the subject it involves: by doing which they
will be able to _speak_, _read_ or _write_ either language, at their
will and pleasure. Either of these works is invaluable to any persons
wishing to learn these languages, and are worth to any one One Hundred
times their cost. These works have already run through several large
editions in this country, for no person ever buys one without
recommending it to his friends.

    FRENCH WITHOUT A MASTER. In Six Easy Lessons.
      GERMAN WITHOUT A MASTER. In Six Easy Lessons.
        SPANISH WITHOUT A MASTER. In Four Easy Lessons.
          ITALIAN WITHOUT A MASTER. In Five Easy Lessons.
            LATIN WITHOUT A MASTER. In Six Easy Lessons.

Price of either of the above Works, separate, 25 cents each--or the
whole five may be had for One Dollar, and will be sent _free of postage_
to any one on their remitting that amount to the publisher, in a
letter.


WORKS BY THE BEST AUTHORS.

FLIRTATIONS IN AMERICA; OR HIGH LIFE IN NEW YORK. A capital book. 285
pages. Price 50 cents.

DON QUIXOTTE.--ILLUSTRATED LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTTE DE LA
MANCHA, and his Squire Sancho Panza, with all the original notes. 300
pages. Price 75 cents.

WILD SPORTS IN THE WEST. By W. H. Maxwell, author of "Pictorial Life and
Adventures of Grace O'Malley." Price 50 cents.

THE ROMISH CONFESSIONAL; or, the Auricular Confession and Spiritual
direction of the Romish Church. Its History, Consequences, and policy of
the Jesuits. By M. Michelet. Price 50 cents.

GENEVRA; or, the History of a Portrait. By Miss Fairfield, one of the
best writers in America. 200 pages. Price 50 cents.

WILD OATS SOWN ABROAD; OR, ON AND OFF SOUNDINGS. It is the Private
Journal of a Gentleman of Leisure and Education, and of a highly
cultivated mind, in making the tour of Europe. It shows up all the High
and Low Life to be found in all the fashionable resorts in Paris. Price
50 cents in paper cover, or 75 cents in cloth, gilt.

SALATHIEL; OR, THE WANDERING JEW. By Rev. George Croly. One of the best
and most world-wide celebrated books that has ever been printed. Price
50 cents.

LLORENTE'S HISTORY OF THE INQUISITION IN SPAIN. Only edition published
in this country. Price 50 cents; or handsomely bound in muslin, gilt,
price 75 cents.

DR. HOLLICK'S NEW BOOK. ANATOMY AND PHYSIOLOGY, with a large dissected
plate of the Human Figure,  to Life. By the celebrated Dr.
Hollick, author of "The Family Physician," "Origin of Life," etc. Price
One Dollar.

DR. HOLLICK'S FAMILY PHYSICIAN; OR, THE TRUE ART OF HEALING THE SICK. A
book that should be in the house of every family. It is a perfect
treasure. Price 25 cents.

MYSTERIES OF THREE CITIES. Boston, New York, and Philadelphia. Revealing
the secrets of society in these various cities. All should read it. By
A. J. H. Duganne. 200 pages. Price 50 cents.

RED INDIANS OF NEWFOUNDLAND. A beautifully illustrated Indian Story, by
the author of the "Prairie Bird." Price 50 cents.

HARRIS'S ADVENTURES IN AFRICA. This book is a rich treat. Two volumes.
Price One Dollar, or handsomely bound, $1 50.

THE PETREL; OR, LOVE ON THE OCEAN. A sea novel equal to the best. By
Admiral Fisher. 200 pages. Price 50 cents.

ARISTOCRACY, OR LIFE AMONG THE "UPPER TEN." A true novel of fashionable
life. By J. A. Nunes, Esq. Price 50 cents.

THE CABIN AND PARLOR. By J. Thornton Randolph. It is beautifully
illustrated. Price 50 cents in paper cover; or a finer edition, printed
on thicker and better paper, and handsomely bound in muslin, gilt, is
published for One Dollar.

LIFE IN THE SOUTH. A companion to "Uncle Tom's Cabin." By C. H. Wiley.
Beautifully illustrated from original designs by Darley. Price 50
cents.

SKETCHES IN IRELAND. By William M. Thackeray, author of "Vanity Fair,"
"History of Pendennis," etc. Price 50 cents.

THE ROMAN TRAITOR; OR, THE DAYS OF CATALINE AND CICERO. By Henry William
Herbert. This is one of the most powerful Roman stories in the English
language, and is of itself sufficient to stamp the writer as a powerful
man. Complete in two large volumes, of over 250 pages each, paper cover,
price One Dollar, or bound in one volume, cloth, for $1 25.

THE LADY'S WORK-TABLE BOOK. Full of plates, designs, diagrams, and
illustrations to learn all kinds of needlework. A work every Lady should
possess. Price 50 cents in paper cover; or bound in crimson cloth, gilt,
for 75 cents.

THE COQUETTE. One of the best books ever written. One volume, octavo,
over 200 pages. Price 50 cents.

WHITEFRIARS; OR, THE DAYS OF CHARLES THE SECOND. An Historical Romance.
Splendidly illustrated with original designs, by Chapin. It is the best
historical romance published for years. Price 50 cents.

WHITEHALL; OR, THE TIMES OF OLIVER CROMWELL. By the author of
"Whitefriars." It is a work which, for just popularity and intensity of
interest, has not been equalled since the publication of "Waverly."
Beautifully illustrated. Price 50 cents.

THE SPITFIRE. A Nautical Romance. By Captain Chamier, author of "Life
and Adventures of Jack Adams." Illustrated. Price 50 cents.

UNCLE TOM'S CABIN AS IT IS. One large volume, illustrated, bound in
cloth. Price $1 25.

FATHER CLEMENT. By Grace Kennady, author of "Dunallen," "Abbey of
Innismoyle," etc. A beautiful book. Price 50 cents.

THE ABBEY OF INNISMOYLE. By Grace Kennady, author of "Father Clement."
Equal to any of her former works. Price 25 cents.

THE FORTUNE HUNTER; a novel of New York society, Upper and Lower Tendom.
By Mrs. Anna Cora Mowatt. Price 38 cents.

POCKET LIBRARY OF USEFUL KNOWLEDGE. New and enlarged edition, with
numerous engravings. Twenty thousand copies sold. We have never seen a
volume embracing any thing like the same quantity of useful matter. The
work is really a treasure. It should speedily find its way into every
family. It also contains a large and entirely new Map of the United
States, with full page portraits of the Presidents of the United States,
from Washington until the present time, executed in the finest style of
the art. Price 50 cents a copy only.

HENRY CLAY'S PORTRAIT. Nagle's correct, full length Mezzotinto Portrait,
and only true likeness ever published of the distinguished Statesman.
Engraved by Sartain. Size, 22 by 30 inches. Price $1 00 a copy only.
Originally sold at $5 00 a copy.

THE MISER'S HEIR; OR, THE YOUNG MILLIONAIRE. A story of a Guardian and
his Ward. A prize novel. By P. H. Myers, author of the "Emigrant
Squire." Price 50 cents in paper cover, or 75 cents in cloth, gilt.

THE TWO LOVERS. A Domestic Story. It is a highly interesting and
companionable book, conspicuous for its purity of sentiment--its graphic
and vigorous style--its truthful delineations of character--and deep and
powerful interest of its plot. Price 38 cents.

ARRAH NEIL. A novel by G. P. R. James. Price 50 cents.

SIEGE OF LONDONDERRY. A History of the Siege of Londonderry, and Defence
of Enniskillen, in 1688 and 1689, by the Rev. John Graham. Price 37
cents.

VICTIMS OF AMUSEMENTS. By Martha Clark, and dedicated by the author to
the Sabbath Schools of the land. One vol., cloth, 38 cents.

FREAKS OF FORTUNE; or, The Life and Adventures of Ned Lorn. By the
author of "Wild Western Scenes." One volume, cloth. Price One Dollar.


WORKS AT TWENTY-FIVE CENTS EACH.

GENTLEMAN'S SCIENCE OF ETIQUETTE, AND GUIDE TO SOCIETY. By Count Alfred
D'Orsay. With a portrait of Count D'Orsay. Price 25 cents.

LADIES' SCIENCE OF ETIQUETTE. By Countess de Calabrella, with her
full-length portrait. Price 25 cents.

ELLA STRATFORD; OR, THE ORPHAN CHILD. By the Countess of Blessington. A
charming and entertaining work. Price 25 cents.

GHOST STORIES. Full of illustrations. Being a Wonderful Book. Price 25
cents.

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       *       *       *       *       *

T. B. PETERSON'S Wholesale & Retail Cheap Book, Magazine, Newspaper,
Publishing and Bookselling Establishment, is at No. 102 Chestnut Street,
Philadelphia:

From which place he will supply all orders for any books at all, no
matter by whom published, in advance of all others, and at publishers'
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City, and the public generally, to call and examine his extensive
collection of all kinds of publications, where they will be sure to find
all the _best, latest, and cheapest works_ published in this country or
elsewhere, for sale very low.


THE FORGED WILL.

BY EMERSON BENNETT, AUTHOR OF "CLARA MORELAND," "VIOLA," "PIONEER'S
DAUGHTER," ETC.

THIS CELEBRATED AND BEAUTIFUL WORK is published complete in one large
volume, of over 300 pages, paper cover, price FIFTY CENTS; or the work
is handsomely bound in one volume, cloth, gilt, price ONE DOLLAR.

ONE HUNDRED THOUSAND COPIES OF THE FORGED WILL! will be sold in a short
time, and it will have a run and popularity second only to Uncle Tom's
Cabin. The Press everywhere are unanimous in its praise, as being one of
the most powerfully written works in the language.

THE FORGED WILL is truly a celebrated work. It has been running through
the columns of the Philadelphia Dollar Newspaper, where it has been
appearing for ten weeks, and has proved itself to be one of the most
popular nouvelettes that has ever appeared in the columns of any
newspaper in this country. Before the fourth paper appeared, the back
numbers, (although several thousand extra of the three former numbers
were printed,) could not be obtained at any price, and the publishers of
the paper were forced to issue a Supplement sheet of the first three
papers of it, for new subscribers to their paper, which induced the
publisher to make an arrangement with the popular author to bring it out
in a beautiful style for the thousands that wish it in book form.

If Emerson Bennett had never written his many delightful and thrilling
stories of border life, of prairie scenes, and Indian warfare, this new
story of the 'Forged Will' would have placed his name on the record as
one of the best of American novelists. The scenes, principally, of this
most captivating novel, are laid in the city of New York; and most
glowingly the author pictures to us how the guilty may, for a time,
escape the justice of the law, but only to feel the heavy hand of
retribution sooner or later; how vice may, for a time, triumph over
virtue, but only for a time; how crime may lie concealed, until its very
security breeds exposure; how true virtue gives way to no temptation,
but bears the ills of life with patience, hoping for a better day, and
rejoices triumphant in the end. In short, from base hypocrisy he tears
the veil that hides its huge deformity, and gives a true picture of life
as it exists in the crowded city. We do cordially recommend this book
for its excellent moral. It is one that should be circulated, for it
_must_ do good.

Price for the complete work, in one volume, in paper cover, Fifty Cents
only; or a finer edition, printed on thicker and better paper, and
handsomely bound in one volume, muslin, gilt, is published for One
Dollar.

       *       *       *       *       *

T. B. PETERSON also publishes the following works by Emerson Bennett,
either or all of which will be sent by mail, free of postage, to any
one, on receipt of the prices annexed to them. All should send for one
or more of them at once. No one will ever regret the money sent.

CLARA MORELAND; or, Adventures in the Far South-West. By Emerson
Bennett, author of the "The Forged Will," "Viola," etc. This has proved
to be one of the most popular and powerful nouvelettes ever written in
America, 336 pages. Price Fifty Cents in paper covers, or ONE DOLLAR in
cloth, gilt.

THE PIONEER'S DAUGHTER. By Emerson Bennett, author of "Clara Moreland,"
"Forged Will," etc. Price 50 cents.

WALDE-WARREN, a Tale of Circumstantial Evidence. By Emerson Bennett,
author of "Viola," "Pioneer's Daughter," etc. Price 25 cents.

VIOLA; or, Adventures in the Far South-West. By Emerson Bennett, author
of "The Pioneer's Daughter," "Walde-Warren," etc. Price 50 cents.

Copies of either edition of the above works will be sent to any person
at all, to any part of the United States, free of postage, on their
remitting the price of the edition they wish, to the publisher, in a
letter, post paid. Published and for Sale by

         T. B. PETERSON,
  No. 102 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia.


VIOLA; OR, ADVENTURES IN THE FAR SOUTH-WEST.

BY EMERSON BENNETT, AUTHOR OF "CLARA MORELAND," "FORGED WILL," "KATE
CLARENDON," "BRIDE OF THE WILDERNESS," "WALDE-WARREN," "PIONEER'S
DAUGHTER," ETC., ETC.

READ THE FOLLOWING OPINIONS OF THE PRESS:

"We have perused this work with some attention, and do not hesitate to
pronounce it one of the very best productions of the talented author.
The scenes are laid in Texas, and the adjoining frontier. There is not a
page that does not glow with thrilling and interesting incident, and
will well repay the reader for the time occupied in perusing it. The
characters are most admirably drawn, and are perfectly natural
throughout. We have derived so much gratification from the perusal of
this charming novel, that we are anxious to make our readers share it
with us; and, at the same time, to recommend it to be read by all
persons who are fond of romantic adventures. Mr. Bennett is a spirited
and vigorous writer, and his works deserve to be generally read; not
only because they are well written, but that they are, in most part,
taken from events connected with the history of our own country, from
which much valuable information is derived, and should, therefore, have
a double claim upon our preference, over those works where the incidents
are gleaned from the romantic legends of old castles, and foreign
climes. The book is printed on fine paper, and is in every way got up in
a style highly creditable to the enterprising publisher."

"It is a spirited tale of frontier life, of which 'Clara Moreland' is
the sequel and conclusion. Mr. Bennett seems to delight in that field of
action and adventure, where Cooper won his laurels; and which is perhaps
the most captivating to the general mind of all the walks of fiction.
There has been, so far, we think, a steady improvement in his style and
stories; and his popularity, as a necessary consequence, has been and is
increasing. One great secret of the popularity of these out-door novels,
as we may call them, is that there is a freshness and simplicity of the
open air and natural world about them--free from the closeness,
intensity and artificiality of the gas-lighted world revealed in works
that treat of the vices and dissipations of large
cities."--_Philadelphia Saturday Evening Post._

"This is one of the best productions of Mr. Bennett. The scenes are in
and near Texas. Every page glows with thrilling interest, and the
characters are well drawn and sustained. An interesting love plot runs
through the book, which gives a faithful representation of life in the
far South-West. Mr. Peterson has issued Viola in his usual neat style,
and it is destined to have a great run."--_Clinton Tribune._

"We have received the above work and found time to give it an
examination. The scenes are laid mostly in Texas, and pictured with all
the vividness for which the author is so celebrated. Those who are
particularly fond of wild and romantic adventures may safely calculate
upon finding 'Viola' suited to their taste. It is well written and
handsomely printed."--_Daily Journal, Chicago, Ill._

"It is a very interesting book. The scenes of this most exciting and
interesting Romance are found in Texas before and during the late
Mexican war. It is written with much spirit and pathos, and abounds in
stirring incidents and adventures, and has an interesting and romantic
love-plot interwoven with it; and is a faithful representation of 'Life
in the Far South-West.' The author of 'Viola,' will rank among the most
popular of American Novelists, and aided by the great energy and
enterprise of his publisher, T. B. Peterson, is fast becoming a general
favorite."--_Gazette, Rhinebeck, N. Y._

"This thrilling and interesting novel--equal to anything the celebrated
author ever wrote--has been issued in a fifty cent volume; and we would
advise every one who wants to get the value of his money, to get the
book. Bennett's works are the most interesting of any now
published."--_Western Emporium, Germantown, Ohio._

THIS BEAUTIFUL AND CELEBRATED WORK is published complete in one large
volume of near 300 pages, paper cover, price FIFTY CENTS; or the work is
handsomely bound in one volume, cloth, gilt, price SEVENTY-FIVE CENTS.

Copies of either edition of the above work will be sent to any person at
all, to any part of the United States, free of postage, on their
remitting the price of the edition they wish, to the publisher, in a
letter, post-paid. Published and for Sale by

          T. B. PETERSON,
No. 102 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia


THE ROMAN TRAITOR; OR, THE DAYS OF CICERO, CATO AND CATALINE.

BY HENRY WILLIAM HERBERT, AUTHOR OF "CROMWELL," "THE BROTHERS," ETC.


READ THE FOLLOWING OPINIONS OF THE PRESS ABOUT IT.

_From the Philadelphia Saturday Courier, of Sept. 10th, 1853._

"This historical romance is the most powerfully wrought work which the
indomitable genius of the author has ever produced; and is amply
sufficient of itself to stamp the writer as a powerful man. The
startling schemes and plots which preceded the overthrow of the great
Roman Republic, afford ample scope for his well-practised pen, and we
may add he has not only been fortunate in producing a work of such
masterly pretensions, but Mr. Herbert is equally so in the good taste,
energy, and tact of his enterprising publisher. The book is admirably
brought out, and altogether may be set down as one of Peterson's 'great
hits' in literature."

_From the Philadelphia Daily Pennsylvanian, of Sept. 8th, 1853._

"The author has made one of his happiest efforts, and given in this
volume a tale which will stand the test of the most rigid criticism, and
be read by all lovers of literature that embodies the true, the
thrilling, the powerful, and the sublime. In fact, we would have thought
it impossible to produce such a tale of the Republic in these latter
days; but here we have it--Sergius Cataline, Cethegus, Cassius, and the
rest of that dark band of conspirators, are here displayed in their true
portraits. Those who have read 'Sallust' with care, will recognize the
truthful portraiture at a glance, and see the heroes of deep and
treacherous villainy dressed out in their proper devil-doing character.
On the other hand, we have Cicero, the orator and true friend of the
Commonwealth of Rome. We have also his noble contemporaries and
coadjutors, all in this volume. Would that space permitted for a more
extended notice, but we are compelled to forbear. One thing is
certain--if this book contained nothing more than the story of Paullus
Arvina, it would be a tale of thrilling interest."

_From the Cleveland, Ohio, True Democrat, of Sept. 8th, 1853._

"Those who have perused the former works of this distinguished author,
will not fail to procure this book--It is a thrilling romance, and the
characters brought forward, and the interest with which they are
constantly invested, will insure for it a great run."

_From the Philadelphia City Item, of Sept. 10th, 1853._

"The Roman Traitor demands earnest commendation. It is a powerful
production--perhaps the highest effort of the brilliant and successful
author. A thorough historian and a careful thinker, he is well qualified
to write learnedly of any period of the world's history. The book is
published in tasteful style, and will adorn the centre-table."

_From the Boston Evening Transcript, of Sept. 6th, 1853._

"This is a powerfully written tale, filled with the thrilling incidents
which have made the period of which it speaks one of the darkest in the
history of the Roman Republic. The lovers of excitement will find in its
pages ample food to gratify a taste for the darker phases of life's
drama."

_From the Philadelphia Sunday Dispatch, of Sept. 4th, 1853._

"Cataline's conspiracy has been selected by Mr. Herbert as the subject
of this story. Taking the historical incidents as recorded by the most
authentic authors, he has woven around them a net-work of incident, love
and romance, which is stirring and exciting. The faithful manner in
which the author has adhered to history, and the graphic style in which
his descriptions abound, stamp this as one of the most excellent of his
many successful novels."

Price for the complete work, in two volumes, in paper cover, One Dollar
only; or a finer edition, printed on thicker and better paper, and
handsomely bound in one volume, muslin, gilt, is published for One
Dollar and Twenty-five Cents.

Copies of either edition of the work will be sent to any person at all,
to any part of the United States, free of postage, on their remitting
the price of the edition they wish to the publisher, in a letter,
post-paid. Published and for sale by

          T. B. PETERSON,
No. 102 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia


THE INITIALS: A STORY OF MODERN LIFE.

Complete in two vols., paper cover, Price One Dollar; or bound in one
vol., cloth. Price One Dollar and Twenty-Five Cents a copy.

T. B. PETERSON, NO. 102 CHESTNUT STREET, PHILADELPHIA, has just
published this celebrated and world-renowned work. It will be found on
perusal to be one of the best, as it is one of the most celebrated works
ever published in the English language, and will live, and continue to
be read for generations to come, and rank by the side of Sir Walter
Scott's celebrated novels.

READ THE TABLE OF CONTENTS

  CHAPTER
        I. The Letter.
       II. The Initials
      III. A. Z.
       IV. A Walk of no common Description.
        V. An Alp.
       VI. Secularized Cloisters.
      VII. An Excursion, and Return to the Secularized Cloisters.
     VIII. An Alpine Party.
       IX. Salzburg.
        X. The Return to Munich.
       XI. The Betrothal.
      XII. Domestic Details.
     XIII. A Truce.
      XIV. A New Way to Learn German.
       XV. The October Fete. A Lesson on Propriety of Conduct.
      XVI. The Au Fair. The Supper.
     XVII. Lovers' Quarrels.
    XVIII. The Churchyard.
      XIX. German Soup.
       XX. The Warning.
      XXI. The Struggle.
     XXII. The Departure.
    XXIII. The Long Day.
     XXIV. The Christmas Tree, and Midnight Mass.
      XXV. The Garret.
     XXVI. The Discussion.
    XXVII. The Sledge.
   XXVIII. A Ball at the Museum Club.
     XXIX. A Day of Freedom.
      XXX. The Masquerade.
     XXXI. Where is the Bridegroom?
    XXXII. The Wedding at Troisieme.
   XXXIII. A Change.
    XXXIV. The Arrangement.
     XXXV. The Difficulty Removed.
    XXXVI. The Iron Works.
   XXXVII. An Unexpected Meeting, and its Consequences.
  XXXVIII. The Experiment.
    XXXIX. The Recall.
       XL. Hohenfels.
      XLI. The Scheiben-Schiessen, (Target Shooting-Match.)
     XLII. A Discourse.
    XLIII. Another kind of Discourse.
     XLIV. The Journey Home Commences.
      XLV. What occurred at the Hotel D'Angle-terre in Frankfort.
     XLVI. Halt!
    XLVII. Conclusion.

Copies of either edition of the work will be sent to any person, to any
part of the United States, _free of postage_, on their remitting the
price of the edition they may wish, to the publisher, in a letter.

Published and for sale by T. B. PETERSON, No. 102 Chestnut St.,
Philadelphia To whom all Orders should be addressed, post-paid.


CLARA MORELAND.

BY EMERSON BENNETT.

Price Fifty Cents in Paper Cover; or, One Dollar in Cloth, Gilt.

READ THE FOLLOWING OPINIONS OF THE PRESS.

"This is decidedly the best novel Mr. Bennett has written. He tells his
story well, and while leading the reader over the prairies of Texas into
the haunts of the wild Indians, or among the equally savage bands of
lawless men, that once were the terror of that country; he presents the
remarkable transitions in the fortunes of his hero, in a manner which,
though often startling, are yet within the bounds of probability. His
dialogue is good, growing easily out of the situation and condition of
the interlocutors, and presenting occasionally, especially in response,
an epigrammatic poise, that is worthy of all praise. The plot abounds
with adventure, and presents many scenes of startling interest, while
the denouement is such as to amply satisfy the most fastidious reader's
ideas of poetical justice. We would add a few words of praise for the
excellent style in which this book is gotten up. It is well printed on
good paper, and bound in a manner to correspond with the quality of its
typography."--_Arthur's Home Gazette._

"This is the best of Mr. Bennett's books. It is a brilliant and
thrilling production, and will particularly interest all who love to
read of life in the West and South-West. A love story runs through the
volume, lending grace and finish to it. Mr. Peterson has issued the book
in very handsome style; the type is new and of honest size, the binding
is strong and pretty, the paper is firm and white, and the
embellishments are eminently creditable. Clara Moreland should command a
large sale."--_Philadelphia City Item._

"On looking more carefully through this racy, spirited narrative of
thrilling scenes and well-told adventures, we meet with beauties that
escape a casual observation. Mr. Bennett is a keen discoverer of
character, and paints his portraits so true to nature as to carry the
reader with him through all his wild wanderings and with unabated
interest. The author of 'Clara Moreland' takes rank among the most
popular American novelists, and aided by the great energy of his
publisher is fast becoming a general favorite."--_McMackin's Model
Saturday Courier._

"Emerson Bennett has written some very creditable productions. This is
one of his longest, and is well received. Mr. Bennett is a favorite
author with Western readers. It is illustrated and well
printed."--_Philadelphia Dollar Newspaper._

"It is a tale of wild border life and exciting incident, bustle, and
turmoil."--_Philadelphia North American._

"Mr. Bennett is, in some measure, a new man in this section of the
universe, and, as such, our reading public are bound to give him a
cordial greeting, not only for this, but for the sake of that
wide-spread popularity which he has achieved in the mighty West, and
more especially for the intrinsic excellence that distinguishes his
glowing, brilliant productions, of which 'Clara Moreland' may be
pronounced the best."--_Philadelphia Saturday Courier._

"This work is of the most exciting character, and will be enjoyed by all
who have a cultivated taste."--_Baltimore Sun._

"The scene of this interesting Romance lies in Texas before or during
the late war with Mexico. It is written with a great deal of spirit; it
abounds in stirring incidents and adventures, has a good love-plot
interwoven with it, and is in many respects a faithful representation of
Life in the Far South-West. Mr. Bennett is destined to great popularity,
especially at the South and West. His publisher has issued this book in
a very handsome style."--_Philadelphia Evening Bulletin._

"This is a thrilling story of frontier life, full of incident, and
graphically sketched. It is published in a good style."--_Philadelphia
Public Ledger._

"This is a spirited narrative of stirring scenes, by Emerson Bennett.
Those who love daring adventure and hair-breadth escapes will find it an
engaging book."--_Detroit, Mich., Paper._

"It is a thrilling narrative of South-Western adventure, illustrated by
numerous engravings."--_Detroit, Mich., Paper._

"It is a wondrous story of thrilling adventures and hair-breadth
escapes, the scene of which is laid in the South-West. The book is
illustrated with engravings representing some of the exciting events
narrated by the writer."--_Detroit, Mich., Paper._

"It is a work replete with stirring adventure. Romance, incident, and
accident, are blended together so as to form a highly interesting work
of 334 pages."--_New York Picayune._

  Published and for sale by T. B. PETERSON,
No. 102 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia


WILD OATS SOWN ABROAD; OR, ON AND OFF SOUNDINGS,

BY A GENTLEMEN OF LEISURE.

A NEW AND EXQUISITELY ORIGINAL WORK.

Have you read it? If not, then do so.

Price Fifty Cents in Paper; or Seventy Five Cents in Cloth.

Wild Oats Sown Abroad is a splendid work. It is the Private Journal of a
Gentleman of Leisure and Education, and of a highly cultivated mind, in
making the Tour of Europe. It is having a sale unprecedented in the
annals of literature, for nothing equal to it in spiciness, vivacity,
and real scenes and observations in daily travel, has ever appeared from
the press.

TABLE OF CONTENTS OF THIS EXTRAORDINARY WORK.

  Opening the Journal.
  Adventure in search of Ruin.
  Parting Tribute to Love.
  Three Desperate Days!
  The Poetry of Sea-Sickness.
  The Red Flannel Night-Cap.
  A Ship by Moonlight.
  Arrival in London.
  The Parks of London.
  Poet's Corner, Westminster Abbey.
  England's Monuments.
  Madame Tussaud's Wax Works.
  The "Beauties" of Hampton Court.
  Love and Philosophy.
  "Love's Labor Lost."
  A Peep at "The Shades."
  The Modern "Aspasia."
  Noble Plea for Matrimony.
  The Lily on the Shore.
  English Mother and American Daughter.
  The "Maid of Normandie."
  An Effecting Scene.
  "Paris est un Artist."
  The Guillotine.
  "Give us Another!"
  Post Mortem Reflections.
  Fashionable Criticism.
  Whiskey Punch and Logic.
  "Shylock asks for Justice!"
  "Lorette" and "Grisette."
  Kissing Day.
  The Tattoo.
  The Masked Ball.
  The Incognita.
  The Charms of Paris.
  Changing Horses.
  A View in Lyons.
  Avignon--Petrarch and Laura.
  Our First Ruin.
  The Unconscious Blessing.
  A Crash and a Wreck.
  The Railroad of Life.
  A Night Adventure.
  "The Gods take care of Cato."
  The Triumphs of Neptune.
  The Marquisi's Foot.
  Beauties of Naples Bay.
  Natural History of the Lazaroni.
  The True Venus.
  Love and Devotion.
  The Mortality of Pompeii.
  Procession of the Host.
  The Ascent of Vesuvius.
  The Mountain Emetic.
  The Human Projectile.
  The City of the Soul.
  The Coup de Main.
  Night in the Coliseum!
  Catholicity Considered.
  Power Passing Away!
  Byron Among the Ruins.
  A Gossip with the Artists.
  Speaking Gems.
  "Weep for Adonis!"
  The Lady and the God.
  The Science of Psalmistry.
  "Sour Grapes."
  A Ramble about Tivoli.
  Illumination of St. Peter's.
  The "Niobe of Nations."
  A Ghostly Scene!
  "Honi soit qui mal y pense."
  A "Ball" without Music.
  Abelard and Heloise.
  Scenes on the Road.
  The "Tug of War."
  "There they are, by Jove!"
  The Raven-Haired One!
  Heaven and Hell!
  The "Hamlet" of Sculpture.
  The Modern Susannah.
  Hey, Presto! Change!
  The Death Scene of Cleopatra.
  An Eulogy on Tuscany.
  A Real Claude Sunset.
  Tasso and Byron.
  The Shocking Team!
  Floatings in Venice.
  The Venetian Girls.
  The Bell-Crowned Hat!
  The "Lion's Mouth."
  The "Bridge of Sighs!"
  A Subterranean Fete!
  Byron and Moore in Venice.
  Diana and Endymion.
  The Pinch of Snuff.
  The Rock-Crystal Coffin!
  Eccentricity of Art.
  Thoughts in a Monastery.
  The Lake of Como.
  Immortal Drummer Boy.
  Wit, and its Reward!
  The Cold Bath.
  "Here we are!"
  The Mountain Expose.
  The "Last Rose of Summer."
  Waking the Echoes.
  Watching the Avalanche.
  A Beautiful Incident.
  A Shot with the Long Bow.
  Mt. Blanc and a full stop.

Price for the complete work, in paper cover, Fifty cents a copy only; or
handsomely bound in muslin, gilt, for Seventy-Five cents.

Copies of either edition of the work will be sent to any person at all,
to any part of the United States, free of postage, on their remitting
the price of the edition they wish, to the publisher, in a letter, post
paid.

  Published and for sale by T. B. PETERSON,
No. 102 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia


T. B. PETERSON'S WHOLESALE AND RETAIL

Cheap Book, Magazine, Newspaper, Publishing and Bookselling
Establishment, is at No. 102 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia.

T. B. PETERSON has the satisfaction to announce to the public, that he
has removed to the new and spacious BROWN STONE BUILDING, NO. 102
CHESTNUT STREET, just completed by the city authorities on the Girard
Estate, known as the most central and best situation in the city of
Philadelphia. As it is the Model Book Store of the Country, we will
describe it: It is the largest, most spacious, and best arranged Retail
and Wholesale Cheap Book and Publishing Establishment in the United
States. It is built, by the Girard Estate, of Connecticut sand-stone, in
a richly ornamental style. The whole front of the lower story, except
that taken up by the doorway, is occupied by two large plate glass
windows, a single plate to each window, costing together over three
thousand dollars. On entering and looking up, you find above you a
ceiling sixteen feet high; while, on gazing before, you perceive a vista
of One Hundred and Fifty-Seven feet. The retail counters extend back for
eighty feet, and, being double, afford counter-room of One Hundred and
Sixty feet in length. There is also _over Three Thousand feet of
shelving in the retail part of the store alone_. This part is devoted to
the retail business, and as it is the most spacious in the country,
furnishes also the best and largest assortment of all kinds of books to
be found in the country. It is fitted up in the most superb style; the
shelvings are all painted in Florence white, with gilded cornices for
the book shelves.

Behind the retail part of the store, at about ninety feet from the
entrance, is the counting-room, twenty feet square, railed neatly off,
and surmounted by a most beautiful dome of stained glass. In the rear of
this is the wholesale and packing department, extending a further
distance of about sixty feet, with desks and packing counters for the
establishment, etc., etc. All goods are received and shipped from the
back of the store, having a fine avenue on the side of Girard Bank for
the purpose, leading out to Third Street, so as not to interfere with
and block up the front of the store on Chestnut Street. The cellar, of
the entire depth of the store, is filled with printed copies of Mr.
Peterson's own publications, printed from his own stereotype plates, of
which he generally keeps on hand an edition of a thousand each, making a
stock, of his own publications alone, of over three hundred thousand
volumes, constantly on hand.

T. B. PETERSON is warranted in saying, that he is able to offer such
inducements to the Trade, and all others, to favor him with their
orders, as cannot be excelled by any book establishment in the country.
In proof of this, T. B. PETERSON begs leave to refer to his great
facilities of getting stock of all kinds, his dealing direct with all
the Publishing Houses in the country, and also to his own long list of
Publications, consisting of the best and most popular productions of the
most talented authors of the United States and Great Britain, and to his
very extensive stock, embracing every work, new or old, published in the
United States.

T. B. PETERSON will be most happy to supply all orders for any books at
all, no matter by whom published, in advance of all others, and at
publishers' lowest cash prices. He respectfully invites Country
Merchants, Booksellers, Pedlars, Canvassers, Agents, the Trade,
Strangers in the city, and the public generally, to call and examine his
extensive collection of cheap and standard publications of all kinds,
comprising a most magnificent collection of CHEAP BOOKS, MAGAZINES,
NOVELS, STANDARD and POPULAR WORKS of all kinds, BIBLES, PRAYER BOOKS,
ANNUALS, GIFT BOOKS, ILLUSTRATED WORKS, ALBUMS and JUVENILE WORKS of all
kinds, GAMES of all kinds, to suit all ages, tastes, etc., which he is
selling to his customers and the public at much lower prices than they
can be purchased elsewhere. Being located at No. 102 CHESTNUT Street,
the great thoroughfare of the city, and BUYING his stock outright in
large quantities, and not selling on commission, he can and will sell
them on such terms as will defy all competition. Call and examine our
stock, you will find it to be the best, largest and cheapest in the
city; and you will also be sure to find all the _best, latest, popular,
and cheapest works_ published in this country or elsewhere, for sale at
the lowest prices.

" Call in person and examine our stock, or send your orders _by mail
direct_, to the CHEAP BOOKSELLING and PUBLISHING ESTABLISHMENT of

                   T. B. PETERSON,
No. 102 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia





End of Project Gutenberg's The Humors of Falconbridge, by Jonathan F. Kelley

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