"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 negroes, 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 negro, 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 colored 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 colored 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 negro 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 "highland 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—"