Hugh, Robert, and Andrew, were now the widow's hope and treasures; Hugh and Robert were her main dependence in working their little farm, and Andrew, never a very robust person, was early sent to the best schools in the neighborhood, and much care taken by his mother to have him at least educated for a profession—the ministry. This resolve was more perhaps decided upon from the naturally stern, contemplative, and fixed principles of young Jackson; as at the early age of fifteen, he was by nature well prepared for the scenes being enacted around him, and in which, even those young as himself, were called upon to take an active part. This was in the days of the revolution, when the weak in numbers of this continent were about to try the experiment of living free and independent, and establish the fact that royalty was an imposition and a humbug, only maintained by arrogance and pomp at the point of the bayonet.

The British had begun the war—already had the echoes of "Bunker Hill," and the smell of "villainous saltpetre," invaded and aroused the quiet dwellers in the woods and wilds of South Carolina, and the chivalric spirit that has ever characterized the men of the Palmetto state, at once responded to the tocsin of liberty. It was with no slight degree of sorrow and aching of the mother's heart, that she saw her two sons, Hugh and Robert, shoulder their muskets and join the Spartan band that assembled at Waxhaw Court-house. But she blessed her children and gave up her holy claim of a mother's love, for the common cause of the infant nation.

Cornwallis and his army crossed the Yadkin, Lord Rawden, with a large force, took the town of Camden, and began a desolation of the adjacent country. Being apprised of a "rebel force" in arms at Waxhaw, he immediately dispatched a company of dragoons, with a company of infantry, to capture or disperse the "rebels." About forty men, including the two boys Jackson, were attacked by these veterans of the British army, but aided by their true courage, a good cause, and perfect knowledge of the country, they gave the invaders a hot reception, and many of the enemy were killed; and not until having made the most determinate resistance, and being overwhelmed by the great majority of the opposing forces, did these patriots retreat, leaving many of their friends dead upon their soil, and eleven of their number prisoners in the hands of the British. It was during this fight that Andrew Jackson—a mere lad—hearing the noise of the conflict, while he sat in the log-house of his mother, besought her to allow him to take his father's gun, and fly to join his brothers. And it was vain that the parent restrained him, knowing the temperament of the boy, from this dangerous determination; for with one warm embrace and parting kiss upon the brow of his mother, Andrew Jackson buckled on his powder-horn and bullet-pouch, and rushed to the scene of battle. But his friends were already flying, and hotly pursued by the enemy. Andrew met his brother Robert, who informed him of the death of their elder brother, Hugh; the two boys now fled together and concealed themselves in the woods, where they lay until hunger drove them forth—they sought food at a farm house, the owner of which proved to be a tory, and gave information to some soldiers in the vicinity—the Jacksons were both captured and led to prison. In the affray—for they yielded only by force—Robert was cut on the head by a sword in the hands of a petty officer, and he died in great agony in prison. It was here and then that the firm and manly bearing of the boy was exhibited; for he stood his griefs and imprisonment like a true hero. Not a tear escaped him by which his enemies might be led to believe he feared their power, or wavered in his allegiance to the cause of his country.

"Here, boy, clean my boots!" said an officer to him. But the bright defiant eye of the boy smote the captor with a look, and as he curled his firm lips in scorn, he answered,

"No, sir, I will not!"

"You won't? I'll tie you, you young saucy rebel, to your post, and skin your back with a horse whip, if you do not clean my boots."

"Do it," said the lion-hearted boy—"for I'll not stoop to clean the boots of your master!"

The infuriated ruffian drew his sword, and to defend his head from the blow, Andrew threw up his little hand and received a gash—the scar of which went with him to the tomb at the Hermitage. A Captain Walker, of South Carolina, with a dozen or twenty men, during the imprisonment of Andrew Jackson, made a desperate charge upon a company of the British, near Camden, and captured thirteen of them; these prisoners he exchanged for seven of his countrymen, including the boy Andrew Jackson, prisoners of the enemy. Andrew hurried home—his poor old mother was upon her death bed, attended by an old negro nurse of the Jackson family, and suffering not only from the great multitude of grief consequent upon the death of her heroic sons, but for want of the common necessaries of life, the invaders having stripped the widow of her last pound of provisions. The life-spark rekindled in the eye of the mother, as she beheld her darling boy safe at her bedside—she grasped his hand with the firmness of a dying woman, and turning her eyes upon the now weeping boy, said,

"Andrew, I leave you,—son, you will soon be alone in the world; be faithful, be true to God and your country—that—when—the—hour of death approaches you—will have—nothing to—dread—every thing—to hope for."

* * * * *

Andrew was taken ill after the burial of his mother, and but for the constant and tender care of the old black nurse—the last of the Jackson family—would have then passed away; he recovered—he was alone—not a relative in the world; poor, and in a land ravaged by a foreign foe, could a boy be more desolate and lonely? With a few "effects" thrown upon his shoulders, he went to North Carolina, Salisbury, where he entered the office of a famed lawyer—Spruce M'Cay—was admitted to the bar in 1778—went to Tennessee—served as a soldier in the Indian wars of 1783—chosen a Senator 1797—Major General in 1801—whipped the British in the most conclusive manner at New Orleans in 1815, and triumphantly elected President of the United States for eight years in 1829. Andrew Jackson followed his mother's advice, and he not only triumphed over his hard fortune, but died a Christian, full of hope, in 1845.



Snaking out Sturgeons.

We have roared until our ribs fairly ached, at the relation of the following "item" on sturgeons, by a loquacious friend of ours:—

It appears our friend was located on the Kennebec river, a few years ago, and had a number of hands employed about a dam, and the sturgeons were very numerous and extremely docile. They would frequently come poking their noses close up to the men standing in the water, and one of the men bethought him how delicious a morsel of pickled sturgeon was, and he forthwith made a preparation to "snake out" a clever-sized fish. Getting an iron rod at the blacksmith's shop, close at hand, he bends up one end like a fish hook, and, slipping out into the stream, he slily places the hook under the sturgeon's nose and into its round hole of a mouth, expecting to fasten on to the victimized, harmless fish, and "yank" him clean and clear out of his watery element. But, "lordy," wasn't he mistaken and surprised! The moment the hook touched the inside of the sturgeon's mouth, the creature backed water so sudden and forcibly as to near jerk the holder of the hook's head from its socket. The poor fellow was forty rods under water, and going down stream, before he mustered presence of mind enough to induce him to let go the hook!

However, the lookers-on of this curious man[oe]uvre took a boat and fished out their half-drowned comrade, who concluded that he had paid pretty dearly for his whistle.

The sturgeon-catching did not end here. After the laugh of the above-mentioned adventure had ceased, some one offered to bet a hat that he could hold a sturgeon and snake him clean out of the water; and as the man who had tried the experiment felt altogether dubious about it, he at once bet that the sturgeon would be more than a match for any man in the crowd.

The wager was duly staked, a rod crooked, the operator tucked up his sleeves and trowsers, and wades out to where a sturgeon or two were lying off in the shallow water. Of course the operation now became a matter of considerable interest; and as the man was a stout, hearty fellow, able to hold a bull by the horns, few entertained doubts of his bringing out his sturgeon.

After a long time the operator gets his hook under the sturgeon, and leans forward to stick it close into the jaws of the victim; and no sooner was that part of the feat accomplished, than Mr. Sturgeon "backs out" with the velocity of chain lightning, carrying his assailant under water and down stream! The man held on; and there they went, foaming and pitching, until the fellow, finding his breath nearly out of his body; his neck, arms, and legs just about dislocated, concluded to lose the hat and let the hook and sturgeon go!

Pretty well used up, the poor fellow succeeded in getting out of the river, a convert to the first experimental idea of the strength and velocity of fish, especially a big sturgeon.

Beginning to imagine that fish could swim, or had some muscular power, several of the bystanders were rife for experimenting on the sturgeons.

Another iron rod was converted into a hook, and two burly-built Paddys volunteered to hook the fish. An opportunity was not long waited for, ere a jolly good elastic nosed genus sturgeon came smelling up close to where the Paddys had posted themselves upon some moss-covered, slippery stones, and with a sudden spasmodic effort, the man with the hook planted it firmly into the suction hole of the fish, while his companion held on to a rope fast to the hook. Before Pat could say Jack Robinson, of course he was jerked off his feet, and, letting go the iron, the other Paddy and the sturgeon set sail, having all the fun to themselves! This proved, or very nearly so, a serious denouement to the sturgeon-catching by hand, for Paddy was carried clean and clear off soundings, and so repeatedly immersed in deep water, that his life was within an ace of being wet out of his body. The rope parted at last (poor Pat never thought of letting go his "hould"), and being dipped out of the liquid element and rolled over a barrel until his insides were emptied of the water, and heat restored through the influence of whiskey, he recovered, and further experimenting on sturgeons, that season, in the Kennebec, ceased.



Mixing Meanings—Mangling English.

There is an individual in Quincy Market, "doing business," who is down on customers who don't speak proper.

"What's eggs, this morning?" says a customer.

"Eggs, of course," says the dealer.

"I mean—how do they go?"

"Go?—where?"

"Sho—!" says the customer, getting up his fury, "what for eggs?"

"Money, money, sir! or good endorsed credit!" says the dealer.

"Don't you understand the English language, sir?" says the customer.

"Not as you mix it and mangle it; I don't!" responded the egg merchant.

"What—is—the—price—per—dozen—for—your—eggs?"

"Ah! now you talk," says the dealer. "Sixteen cents per dozen, is the price, sir!" They traded!



Waking up the Wrong Passenger.

In "comparing notes" with a travelled friend, I glean from his stock of information, gathered South-west, a few incidents in the life of a somewhat extensively famed Boston panoramic artist—one of which incidents, at least, is worth rehearsing. Some years ago, the South-west was beset by an organized coalition of desperadoes, whose daring outrages kept travellers and the dwellers in the Mississippi valley in continual fear and anxiety. "Running niggers" was one of the most popular and profitable branches of the business pursuits of these gentlemen freebooters, and, next to horse-stealing, was the most practised.

At length, the citizens "measured swords" with the freebooters, or land pirates, more properly; forming themselves into committees, the citizens opened Court and practised Judge Lynch's code upon a multitude of just occasions. At the time of which we write, Mill's Point, on the Mississippi, was no great shakes of a town, but a spot where a very considerable amount of whiskey was drank, and a corresponding quantity of crime and desperate doings were enacted; indeed, some of the worst scenes in Southern Kentucky's tragic dramas were performed there. It so fell out, that some of the land pirates had been actively engaged in levying upon the negroes and mules around Mill's Point, and the protective committee were on the alert to capture and administer the law upon these fellows. It was discovered, one evening, as the shades of a black and rather tempestuous night were closing upon the mighty "father of waters" and his ancient banks, that a mysterious voyageur, or sort of piratical vidette, was seen in his light canoe, hugging the shore, either for shelter or some insidious purpose.

The canoe and its navigator were diligently watched; but the coming storm and darkness soon closed observation, and the parties noticing the transaction hurried forward to the Point, and announced one or more of the land pirates in the neighborhood! Of course, the town—of some four houses, six "groceries," a store and blacksmithery—was aroused, indignant! Impatient for a victim, the posse comitatus "fired up," armed to the teeth with pistol, bludgeon, blunderbuss, gun, bowie-knife, and—whiskey, started up the river to reconnoitre and intercept the pirate and his crew.

Each nook and corner along shore, for some three miles, was carefully—as much so as the darkness would admit—scoured. The Storm-King rode by, the stars again twinkled in the azure-arched heavens, and soon, too, the bright silver moon beamed forth, and suddenly one of the vigilant committee espies the land-pirate and his canoe noiselessly floating down the rapid stream! No time was to be lost; the committee man, rather pleased with the fact of his being the first to make the discovery, apprised a comrade, and the two hurried back to the Point, to get a canoe and start out to capture the enemy. The canoe was obtained, three courageous men, armed to the teeth, as the saying goes, paddled off, and indeed they had not far to paddle, for right ahead they saw the mysterious canoe of the enemy! Where was the pirate? Asleep! Lying down in his frail vessel; either asleep, or "playing possum." At all events, the Mills-Pointers gave the enemy but a brief period to sleep or act; for, dashing alongside, a brawny arm seized the victim in the strange canoe by the breast and throat, with such a rush and fierceness that both canoes were upon the apex of "swamping."

"Don't move! Don't budge an inch, or you're a case for eels, you thief!"

"Make catfish bait of him at once!" yelled the second.

"Don't move," cried the third, "don't move, you possum, or you're giblets, instanter!"

But these injunctions scarcely seemed necessary, for, even had the captive been so inclined, he neither possessed the power nor opportunity to move a limb.

"Haul him out," cried one.

"Yes, lug him into our boat," said another; "so now, you skunk, lay still; don't open your trap, or I'll brain you on sight!"

Having transferred the body of the captive from his "own canoe" to theirs, the Mills-Pointers made fast the stranger's dug-out, and then paddled for the landing. The pirate was duly hauled ashore, or on to the wharf-boat, and left under guard of one of the captors—a dreadful ugly-looking customer, a cross between a whiskey-cask, bowie-knife, and a Seminole Indian or bull-dog, and armed equal to an arsenal—while the other two went up to the nearest "grocery," reported the capture, took a drink, and sent out word for Court to meet. The poor victim was deposited on his back across some barrels, with his hands tied behind him. Recovering his scattered senses, the pirate "waked up."

"Look here, my virtuous friend," said he to his body-guard, who sat on an opposite barrel, with a heavy pistol in his hand, "what's all this about?"

"Shet up!" responded the guard; "shet up your gourd. You'll know what's up, pooty soon, you ugly cuss, you!"

"Well, that's explicit, anyhow!" coolly continued the captive. "But all I want to know, is—am I to be robbed, killed off, or only initiated into the mysteries of your craft?"

"Shet up, you piratin' cuss, you; shet up, or I'll give you a settler!" was the reply.



"Well, really, you are accommodating," cavalierly replied the but little daunted captive. "One thing consoling I glean, my virtuous friend, from your scraps of information—you are not a pirate yourself, or in favor of that science! But I should like to know, old fellow, where I am, and what the deuce I'm here for."

"Well, you'll soon diskiver the perticklers, for here comes the Court, and they'll have you dancin' on nothin' and kickin' at the wind, pooty soon; you kin stake your pile on that!"

And with this, a hum was heard, and soon a mob of a dozen well-stimulated citizens, and strangers about the Point, came rushing and yelling on to the wharf-boat and were quite as immediately gathered around the captive. The first impulse of the posse comitatus appeared to manifest itself in a desire to hang the victim—straight up! A second (how sober we know not) thought induced them to ask a question or two, and for this purpose the presiding judge drew up before the still prostrate captive, and said—

"Who are you? What have you got to say for yourself, anyhow?"

The sunburnt, ragged, and rather romantic-looking prisoner turned his face towards the judge, and replied—

"I have nothing of consequence to say, neighbor. I would like to know, however, what all this means!"

"Where's your crew, you villain?" said the judge.

"Crew? I have never found it necessary to have any, neighbor; navigation never engrossed a great deal of my attention, but I get along down here very well—without a crew!"

"You do?" responded the judge; "well, we're going to hang you up."

"You are, eh?" was the cool reply; "well, I have always been opposed to capital punishment, neighbor, and I know it would be unpleasant to me now!"

The quiet manner of his reply rather won upon the Court, and says the judge—

"Who are you, and where are you from?"

"My name is Banvard—John Banvard, from Boston!"

"It is, eh? What are you doing along here, alone in a canoe?"

"Taking a panorama of the Mississippi, neighbor, that's all."

The Court adjourned sine die; the clever artist was untied, treated to the best the market afforded, that night; his canoe, rifle, &c., restored next day, and John went on his way rejoicing in his narrow escape—finished his sketches, and the first great panorama "got up" in our country, and which he took to Europe, after making a fortune by it in America.



Genius for Business.

It's a highly prized faculty in shop-keeping to sell something when a customer comes in, if you can. A female relative of ours went into a Hanover street fancy store 'tother day, to "look over" some ivory card and needle cases; the slightly agricultural-looking clerk "flew around," and when the question "Have you any ivory card cases?" was propounded, he responded—

"Not any, mum;" glancing into the show-case, his visual orbs lit upon a profusion of well-known matters in domestic economy, for the abrogation of certain parasitic insects.

"Haven't any card cases, mum,—got some elegant ivory small-tooth combs!"



Have You Got Any Old Boots?

No slight portion of the ills that flesh is heir to, in a city life, is the culinary item of rent day. Washing day has had its day—machines and fluid have made washing a matter of science and ease, and we are no longer bearded by fuming and uncouth women in the sulks and suds, as of yore, on the day set apart for renovating soiled dimities and dickeys. Another and more important matter, from the extent of its obnoxiousness to our nerves and temper, has come home to our very threshold and hearths, to disturb the even tenor of our domestic quietude and peace.

"Have you got any ole boots?"

Boston lost a good citizen by those bell-pulling, gate-whacking, back-door-pounding infernal collectors of time and care-worn boots. The old boot gatherers were almost as diverting as novel to me, when I first located in Boston; but I have long since learned to hate and abhor them, and their co-laborers in the tin-pan, tape, tea-pot, willow work, and white pine ware trade, with a most religious enthusiasm.

"Have you got any ole boots?"

How often—a hundred times at least, have I gone to the door and heard this inquiry—ten times in one day, for I kept count of it, and used enough "strong language" at each shutting—banging to of the door, to last a "first officer" through a gale of wind.

"Have you got any ole boots?"

The idea of jumping up from your beef steak and coffee, or morning paper—just as you had got into a deeply interesting bit of information on "breadstuff's," California, or the Queen's last baby, to open your door, and espy a grim-visaged and begrimed son of the Emerald Isle, just rearing his phiz above the pyramid of ancient and defiled leather, and meekly asking—

"Have yez got any ole boots?"

These collectors are of course prepared for any amount of explosive gas you may shower down upon their uncombed crowns, as the cool and perfectly-at-home manner they descend your steps to mount those of your next-door neighbor plainly indicates. The "pedlers" and—

"Have you got any ole boots?"

Drove my respected—middle-aged friend Mansfield—clear out of town! Mr. Mansfield was a retired flour merchant; he was not rich, but well to do in the world. He had no children of his own, in lieu of which, however, he had become responsible for the "bringing up" of two orphans of a friend. One of these children was a boy, old enough to be devilish and mightily inclined that way. The boy's name was Philip, the foster father he called Uncle Henry, and not long after arriving in town, and opening house at the South End, Mr. Mansfield—who was given to quiet musings, book and newspaper reading—found that he was likely to become a victim to the aforesaid hawkers, pedlers and old boot collectors.

Uncle Henry stood it for a few months, with the firmness of an experienced philosopher, laying the flattering unction to his soul that, however harrowing—

"Got any ole boots to-day?"

might be to him, for the present, he could grin and bear and finally get used to it, as other people did. But Uncle Henry possessed an irritable and excitable temperament, that not one man in ten thousand could boast of, and hence he grew—at length sour, then savage, and, finally, quite meat-axish, towards every outsider who dared to ring his bell, and proffer wooden ware and tin fixins, for rags and rubbers, or make the never-to-be-forgotten inquiry—

"Have you got any ole boots to-day?"

Always at home, seated in his front parlor, and his frugal wife not permitting the expense of a servant, Uncle Henry, or Master Philip, were obliged to wait on the door. The old gentleman finally concluded that the pedlers and old boot collectors, more as a matter of daily amusement than profit or concern—gave him a call. And laboring under this impression, Uncle Henry determined to give the nuisances, as he called them, a reception commensurate with their impertinence and his worked up ire.

"Now, Philly," said Uncle Henry, one morning after breakfast, "we'll fix these—

"'Got any ole boots?'

"We'll give the rascals a caution, they won't neglect soon, I'll warrant them. Bring me the hammer and nails; that's a man; now get uncle the high chair; so, that's it; now I'll fix this shelf up over the top of the door, on a pivot—bore this hole through here—put the string through that way, here, umph; oh, now we'll have a trap for the scoundrels. I'll learn them how to come pulling people's bells, clean out by the very roots, making us drop all, to come wait on them, rot them—

"'Got any ole boots?'

"I'll give you old boots, by the lord Harry; I'll give you a dose of something you won't forget, to your dying day."

And thus jabbering, fixing and pushing about the revolving shelf, over his hall door, Mr. Mansfield worked away at his trap. Like that of most dwellings in Boston, Uncle Henry's front door was sunk some six or eight feet into the face of the house, reached by a flight of six granite steps—side and top lights to the door, in the ordinary way, with brass plate and bell pull. It was in a neighborhood not plebeian enough to induce butcher boys to enter the hall, with the pork and potatoes, nor admit of the servant girl heaving "slops" out of the front windows; yet not sufficiently parvenu to impress pedlers and

"Got any ole boots?"

with aristocratic or "respectable" awe, ere venturing to mount the steps, pull the bell, and mention tin pots, scrap iron, rags and old leather. Mr. Mansfield was inclined to chuckle in his sleeves at the ruse he would be enabled to give his tormentors through the agency of his revolving battery—charged with ground charcoal and brick dust, to be worked by himself or Philly, by means of a string on the inside. Philly was duly initiated into the modus operandi; when—

"Got any ole boots?"

made his appearance, amid his pyramid of leather, or a pedler's wagon was seen in the neighborhood, Philly was to be on the qui vive, inform Uncle Henry, and if they mounted the steps, he would give them a shower bath upon a new and astonishing principle.

It was perfect "nuts" for Master Phil; he was tickled at the idea, and readily agreed to Uncle Henry's propositions. Not long after arranging the "infernal machine," Uncle Henry's attention was called to another part of the house; a dire calamity had befallen the Canary bird; a strange cat had pounced upon the cage—the door flew open, and puss nabbed the little warbler. Philly, on the look out, in front, discovers two old boot men approaching the neighborhood; desirous of showing his own skill, he did not call Uncle Henry, but posted himself behind the door—string in hand, awaiting the cue. Feet approach—quickly the feet mount the steps.

"Ding al ling, ding de ding, ding, ding, ding!"

"Sh-i-i-s-swashe!" and down comes the avalanche of coal dust and refined brick, the bulk of a peck, fair measurement!

Uncle Henry reached the door just in time to see the penny postman covered from head to foot with the obnoxious composition! Philly took occasion to make a sudden exit, the postman swore—swore like a trooper, but Uncle Henry managed to pack the whole transaction upon the "devilish boy"—brushed the postman's clothes, and after some effort, so mollified him as to induce the sufferer to depart in peace. Uncle Henry tried to be very severe on Philly, but it was very evident to that hopeful that the old gentleman was more tickled than serious. Philly cleared the steps, and the old gentleman re-arranged the trap, admonishing Philly not to dare to meddle with it again, but call him when—

"Got any ole boots?" made their appearance.

All was quiet up to noon next day; Uncle Henry had business down town, and left the house at 9 A. M. Philly was at school, but got home before Uncle Henry, and seeing the pedler wagon near the door—slipped in, and learning that the old gentleman was out, he gladly took charge of the battery again. Now, just as the pedler mounted the steps of the next door, Mr. Mansfield sees him, and hurries up his own steps, to be on the watch for the pedler. Philly had been peeking out the corner of the side curtain, and seeing the pedler coming, as he thought, right up the steps—nabbed the string, and as Uncle Henry caught the knob of the door—down came thundering the brick dust and charcoal both, in the most elegant profusion.

Phil was tricked. Uncle Henry's vociferations were equal to that of a drunken beggar—the trap was removed, Uncle Henry got disgusted with city life, and left—for rural retirement, without as much as giving one single rebuke to—

"Got any ole boots to-day?"



The Vagaries of Nature.

Nature seems to have her fitful, frightful, and funny moods, as well as all her children. Now she gets up a stone bridge, the gigantic proportions and the symmetrical development of which attract great attention from all tourists and historians who venture into or speak of "old Virginia." The old dame goes down far into the bowels of Mother Earth, in Kentucky, and builds herself, silently and alone, a stupendous under-ground palace, that laughs to scorn the puny efforts of man in that branch of business. She gets up sugar-loaf mountains, pillars of salt, great granite breastworks, and stone towers; hews out figure-heads, old men's noses on the beetling cliffs of New Hampshire, and throws up rocky palisades along the Hudson, that win wonder and delight from the floating million. Instances out of all number might be raked up, home and abroad, to show how the old dame has cut didoes in the prosecution of her manifold duties. But in Australia, it would seem, nature has taken most especial pains to appear slightly ridiculous or very eccentric.

Old Captain Rocksalt informs us—and there is always wit, wisdom, and truth in the old man's stories—that he made voyages to Australia many times within the past thirty years, and having visited about all the sea-ports of the Continent, lived and almost died in Australia, his notes are worthy of attention. Capt. Cook discovered and named Botany Bay, the name originating from the fact that the land was covered with a luxurious growth of Botanical specimens. The Dutch discovered and named Van Diemen's Land. The English at once concluded to make Botany Bay a penal colony, and the first living freight of criminals and soldiers sent out, was some 700 in number, in 1788; but Capt. Phillip, the commander of the fleet, being dissatisfied with the looks of Botany Bay, hunted up a better place, and sailed to it. When Capt. Cook was cruising off there, one of his sailors, on the look out, cried, "Land ho!"

Cook was over his wine and beef, in the cabin, and it took him some time to "tumble up" on deck.

"Where the deuce is your land, eh?" bawls the old cruiser.

"Larboard beam, sir!" responds the "lookout;" and, sure enough, a long, faint streak of land was visible from deck. The "lookout" announced a harbor, head-lands, &c.; but the rum old captain, not being able to see any such indication, with a chuckle, says he—

"You booby! harbor, eh? Ha, ha! well, we'll call it a port, you powder monkey—Port Jackson!"

And faith, so the lookout, Jackson, became sponsor to the finest harbor in all Australia; for Capt. Phillip, upon rediscovering the harbor, took his fleet into it, and then and there began the now flourishing city of Sydney.

Australia is an Island, lying opposite another—New Zealand. It is on the Indian Ocean, south side, while the east opens to the Pacific. Australia claims to contain a superficial area of over three million square miles, part desert, rather mountainous, and all being in one of the finest climates on the face of the earth. The air is dry, the soil light and sandy; the high winds stir up the dust and fine sand, and make ophthalmy the only positive ill peculiar to the country. Sheep-grazing, wool-growing, and boiling down sheep and cattle for tallow was the great business of the country from its earliest settlement up to 1851, when the gold fever swept the land.

Australia was inhabited by over 100,000 natives, black cannibals of the ugliest description; but at this day not a hundred of them remain. The natives were exceeding stupid and useless; the first settlers, who, as Capt. Rocksalt observes, were jail-birds and scape-gallows, were not very dainty in dealing with the obnoxious natives; so they determined to get rid of them as fast and easy as possible. For this purpose, they used to gather a horde of them together, and give them poisoned bread and rum, and so kill them off by hundreds. It was a sharp sort of practice, but the ends seemed to justify the means.

Gold, "laying around loose," as it did, was, no doubt, discovered years ago; but not in quantities to lead the ignorant to believe money could be made hunting it. People may be stupid; but it requires a far greener capacity than most of them would confess to—at least, ten years ago—to make them believe gold could be picked up in chunks out in the open fields.

But Australia began to be populated; by convicts first; and then by far better people; though the very worst felons sent out often became decent and respectable men, which is indeed a great "puff," we think, for the healthfulness of the climate. A convict shepherd now and then used to bring into Sydney small lumps of gold and sell them to the watch-makers, and as he refused to say where or how he got them, it was suspicioned that he had secreted guineas or jewelry somewhere, and occasionally melted them for sale.

However, one day the thing broke out, nearly simultaneously, all over Australia. Gold was lying around everywhere. The rocks, ledges, bars, gullies, and river-banks, which were daily familiar to the eyes of thousands, all of a sudden turned up bright and shining gold. Old Dame Nature must have laughed in her sleeve to see the fun and uproar—the scrabble and rush she had caused in her vast household.

"It did beat all!" exclaims the old Captain. "In forty-eight hours Sydney was half-depopulated, Port Phillip nearly desolate, while the interior villages or towns—Bathurst, &c., were run clean out!"

Stores were shut up, the clerks running to the mines, and the proprietors after the clerks. Mechanics dropped work and put out; servants left without winking, leaving people to wait on themselves; doctors left what few patients they had, and bolted for the fields of Ophir; lawyers packed up and cut stick, following their clients and victims to the brighter fields of "causes" and effects. The newspapers became so short-handed that dailies were knocked into weeklies, and the weeklies into cocked hats, or something near it—mere eight-by-ten "handbills."

These "discoveries" wrought as sudden as singular a revolution in men, manners, and things. As we said before, Australia was the very apex of singularities in the way of Dame Nature's fancy-work, long before the gold mania broke out; but now she seemed bent on a general and miscellaneous freak, making the staid, matter-of-fact Englishmen as full of caprice as the land they were living in.

"Only look at it!" exclaims the Captain: "the day comes in the middle of our nights! When we're turning in at home, they are turning out in Australia. Summer begins in the middle of winter; and for snow storms they get rain, thunder and lightning. About the time we are getting used to our woollens and hot fires of the holidays, they are roasting with heat, and going around in linen jackets and wilted dickeys. The land is full of flowers of every hue, gay and beautiful, gorgeous and sublime to look at, but as senseless to the smell and as inodorous as so many dried chips. The swans are numerous, but jet black. The few animals in the country are all provided with pockets in their 'overcoats,' or skin, in which to stow their young ones, or provender. Some of the rivers really appear," says the Captain, "to run up stream! I was completely taken down," says the Captain, "by a bunch of the finest pears you ever saw. Myself and a friend were up the country, and I sees a fine pear tree, breaking down with as elegant-looking fruit as I ever saw.

"'Well, by ginger,' says I, 'them are about as fine pears as I've seen these twenty years!'

"'Yes,' says my friend, who was a resident in the country; 'perhaps you would like to try a few?'

"'That I shall,' says I; so I ups and knocks down a few, and it was a job to get them down, I tell you; and when I had one between my teeth I gave it a nip—see there, two teeth broke off," says the Captain, showing us the fact; "the fine pears were mere wood!

"The country is well supplied with fine birds; but they are dumb as beetles, sir—never heard a bird sing or whistle a note in Australia. The trees make no shade, the leaves hang from the stems edge up, and look just as if they had been whipped into shreds by a gale of wind; and you rarely see a tree with a bit of bark on it.

"But what completely upset me, was the cherries, sir—fine cherries, plenty of them, but the stones were all on the outside! The bees have no stings, the snakes no fangs, and the eagles are all white. The north wind is hot, the south wind cold. Our longest days are in summer; but in Australia, sir, the shortest days come in summer, and the longest in winter; and," says the Captain, "I can't begin to tell you how many curious didoes nature seems to cut, in that country; but, altogether, it's one of the queerest countries I ever did see, by ginger!"

And we have come to the conclusion—it is. If the gold continues to "turn up" in such boulders and "nuggets" as recently reported, Australia is bound to be the richest and most densely populated, as well as queerest country known to man.



A General Disquisition on "Hinges."

Did you ever see a real, true, unadulterated specimen of Down East, enter a store, or other place of every-day business, for the purpose of "looking around," or dicker a little? They are "coons," they are, upon all such occasions. We noted one of these "critters" in the store of a friend of ours, on Blackstone Street, recently. He was a full bloom Yankee—it stuck out all over him. He sauntered into the store, as unconcerned, quietly, and familiarly, as though in no great hurry about anything in particular, and killing time, for his own amusement. Absalom, Abijah, Ananias, Jedediah, or Jeremiah, or whatever else his name may have been, wore a very large fur cap, upon a very small and close-cut head; his features were mightily pinched up; there was a cunning expression about the corner of his eyes, not unlike the embodiment of—"catch a weazel asleep!" while the smallness of his mouth, thinness and blue cast of his chin and lips, bespoke a keen, calculating, pinch a four-pence until it squeaked like a frightened locomotive temperament! His "boughten" sack coat, fitting him all over, similar to a wet shirt on a broom-handle, was pouched out at the pockets with any quantity of numerous articles, in the way of books and boots, pamphlets and perfumery, knick-knacks and gim-cracks, calico, candy, &c. His vest was short, but that deficiency was made up in superfluity of dickey, and a profusion of sorrel whiskers. Having got into the store, he very leisurely walked around, viewing the hardware, separately and minutely, until one of the clerks edged up to him:

"What can we do for you to-day, sir?"

Looking quarteringly at the clerk for about two full minutes, says he—

"I'd dunno, just yet, mister, what yeou kin do."

"Those are nice hinges, real wrought," says the clerk, referring to an article the "customer" had just been gazing at with evident interest.

"Rale wrought?" he asked, after another lapse of two minutes.

"They are, yes, sir," answered the clerk. Then followed another pause; the Yankee with both his hands sunk deep into his trowsers' pockets, and viewing the hinges at a respectful distance, in profound calculation, three minutes full.

"They be, eh?" he at length responded.

"Yes, sir, warranted," replied the clerk. Another long pause. The Yankee approached the hinges, two steps—picks up a bundle of the article, looks knowingly at them two minutes—

"Yeou don't say so?"

"No doubt about that, at all," the clerk replies, rather pertly, as he moves off to wait upon another customer, who bought some eight or ten dollars' worth of cutlery and tools, paid for them, and cleared out, while our Yankee genius was still reconnoitering the hinges.

"I say, mister, where's them made?" inquires the Yankee.

"In England, sir," replied the clerk.

"Not in Neuw England, I'll bet a fo'pence!"

"No, not here—in Europe."

"I knowed they warn't made areound here, by a darn'd sight!"

"We've plenty of American hinges, if you wish them," said the clerk.

"I've seen hinges made in aour place, better'n them."

"Perhaps you have. We have finer hinges," answered the clerk.

"I 'spect you have; I don't call them anything great, no how!"

"Well, here's a better article; better hinges—"

"Well, them's pooty nice," said the Yankee, interrupting the clerk, "but they're small hinges."

"We have all sizes of them, sir, from half an inch to four inches."

"You hev?" inquiringly observed the Yankee, as the clerk again left him and the hinges, to wait on another customer, who bought a keg of nails, &c., and left.

"I see you've got brass hinges, tew!" again continued the Yankee, after musing to himself for twenty minutes, full.

"O, yes, plenty of them," obligingly answered the clerk.

"How's them brass 'uns work?"

"Very well, I guess; used for lighter purposes," said the clerk.

"Put 'em on desks, and cubber-doors, and so on?"

"Yes; they are used in a hundred ways."

"Hinges," says the Yankee, after a pause, "ain't considered, I guess, a very neuw invenshun?"

"I should think not," half smilingly replied the clerk.

"D'yeou ever see wooden hinges, mister?"

"Never," candidly responded the clerk.

"Well, I hev," resolutely echoed the Yankee.

"You have, eh?"

"E' yes, plenty on 'em—eout in Illinoi; seen fellers eout there that never seen an iron hinge or a razor in their lives!"

"I wasn't aware our western friends were so far behind the times as that," said the clerk.

"It's a fact—dreadful, tew, to be eout in a place like that," continued the Yankee. "I kept school eout there, nigh on to a year; couldn't stand it—"

"Ah, indeed!" mechanically echoed the poor clerk.

"No, sir; dreadful place, some parts of Illinoi; folks air almighty green; couldn't tell how old they air, nuff on 'em; when they get mighty old and bald-headed, they stop and die off, of their own accord."

"Illinois must be a healthy place?" observed the clerk.

"Healthy place! I guess not, mister; fever and ague sweetens 'em, I tell you. O, it's dreadful, fever and ague is!"

"That caused you to leave, I suppose?" said the clerk.

"Well, e' yes, partly; the climate, morals, and the water, kind o' went agin me. The big boys had a way o' fightin', cursin', and swearin', pitchin' apple cores and corn at the master, that didn't exactly suit me. Finally, one day, at last, the boys got so confeounded sassy, and I got the fever and agy so bad, that they shook daown the school-house chimney, and I shook my hair nearly all eout by the roots, with the agy—so I packed up and slid!"

The clerk being again called away to wait on a fresh customer, the Yankee was left to his meditations and survey. Having some twenty more minutes to walk around the store, and examine the stock, he brought up opposite the clerk, who was busy tying up gimlets, screws, and stuff, for a carpenter's apprentice. Yankee explodes again.

"Got a big steore of goods layin' areound here, haven't yeou?"

"We have, sir, a fair assortment," said the clerk.

"Them Illinoi folks haven't no idee what a place this Boston is; they haven't. I tried to larn 'em a few things towards civilization, but 'twaren't no sort o' use tryin'!"

"New country yet; the Illinois folks will brighten up after a while, I guess," said the clerk. "Did you wish to examine any other sort of hinges, sir?" he continued.

"Hain't I seen all yeou hev?"

"O, no; here we have another variety of hinges, steel, copper, plated, &c. These are fine for parlor doors, &c.," said the clerk.

"E' yes them air nice, I swow, mister; look like rale silver. I 'spect them cost somethin'?"

"They come rather high," said the clerk, "but we've got them as low as you can buy them in the market."

"I want to know!" quietly echoes the Yankee.

"Yes, sir; what do you wish to use them for?" says the clerk.

"Use 'em?" responded the Yankee.

"Yes; what priced hinges did you require?"

"What priced hinges?—"

"Exactly! Tell me what you require them for, and I can soon come at the sort of hinges you require," said the clerk, making an effort to come to a climax.

"Who said I wanted any hinges?"

"Who said you wanted any? Why, don't you want to buy hinges?"

"Buy hinges? Why, no; I don't want nothin'; I only came in to look areound!"

Having looked around, the imperturbable Yankee stepped out, leaving the poor clerk—quite flabbergasted!



Miseries of Bachelorhood.

Dabster says he would not mind living as a bachelor, but when he comes to think that bachelors must die—that they have got to go down to the grave "without any body to cry for them"—it gives him a chill that frost-bites his philosophy. Dabster was seen on Tuesday evening, going convoy to a milliner. Putting this fact to the other, and we think we "smell something," as the fellow said when his shirt took fire.



The Science of "Diddling."

Jeremy Diddlers have existed from time immemorial down, as traces of them are found in all ancient and modern history, from the Bible to Shakspeare, from Shakspeare to the revelations of George Gordon Byron, who strutted his brief hour, acted his part, and—vanished. Diddler is derived from the word diddle, to do—every body who has not yet made his debut to the Elephant. We believe the word has escaped the attention of the ancient lexicographers, and even Worcester, and the still more durable "Webster," have no note of the word, its derivation, or present sense.

A "Jeremy Diddler" is, in fact, one of your first-class vagabonds; a fellow who has been spoiled by indulgent parents, while they were in easy circumstances. Trained up to despise labor, not capacitated by nature or inclination to pass current in a profession, he finds himself at twenty possessed of a genteel address, a respectable wardrobe, a few friends, and—no visible means of support. There are but two ways about it—take to the highway, or become a Diddler—a sponge—and, like woodcock, live on "suction." The early part of a Diddler's life is chiefly spent among the ladies;—they being strongly susceptible of flattering attentions, especially those of "a nice young man," your Diddler lives and flourishes among them like a fighting cock. Diddler's "heyday" being over, he next becomes a politician—an old Hunker; attends caucusses and conventions, dinners and inaugurations. Never aspiring to matrimony among the ladies, he remains an "old bach;" never hoping for office under government, he never gets any; and when, at last, both youth and energies are wasted, Diddler dons a white neckcloth, combs his few straggling hairs behind his ears, and, dressed in a well-brushed but shocking seedy suit of sable, he jines church and turns "old fogie," carries around the plate, does chores for the parson, becomes generally useful to the whole congregation, and finally shuffles off his mortal coil, and ends his eventful and useless life in the most becoming manner.

Cities are the only fields subservient to the successful practice of a respectable Diddler. New York affords them a very fair scope for operation, but of all the American cities, New Orleans is the Diddler's paradise! The mobile state of society, the fluctuations of men and business, the impossibility of knowing any thing or any body there for any considerable period, gives the Diddler ample scope for the exercise of his peculiar abilities to great effect. He dines almost sumptuously at the daily lunches set at the splendid drinking saloons and cafes, he lives for a month at a time on the various upward-bound steamboats. In New Orleans, the departure of a steamer for St. Louis, Cincinnati or Pittsburg, is announced for such an hour "to-day"—positively; Diddler knows it's "all a gag" to get passengers and baggage hurried on, and the steamer keeps going for two to five days before she's gone; so he comes on board, registers one of his commonplace aliases, gets his state-room and board among the crowd of real passengers, up to the hour of the boat's shoving out, then he—slips ashore, and points his boots to another boat. Many's the Diddler who's passed a whole season thus, dead-heading it on the steamers of the Crescent City. Sometimes the Diddler learns bad habits in the South, from being a mere Diddler, which is morally bad enough; he comes in contact with professional gamblers, plunges into the most pernicious and abominable of vices—gambles, cheats, swindles, and finally, as a grand tableau to his utter damnation here and hereafter, opens a store or a bank with a crowbar—or commits murder.



The Re-Union; Thanksgiving Story.

"Behold, for peace I had great bitterness, but thou hast in love to my soul delivered it from the pit of corruption: for thou hast cast all my sins behind thy back."—Isaiah.

A portly elderly gentleman, with one hand in his breeches pocket, and the fingers of the other drumming a disconsolate rub-a-dub upon the window glass of an elegant mansion near Boston Common, is the personage I wish to call your attention to, friend reader, for the space of a few moments. The facts of my story are commonplace, and thereby the more probable. The names of the dramatis personae I shall introduce, will be the only part of my subject imaginary. Therefore, the above-described old gentleman, whom we found and left drumming his rub-a-dub upon the window panes, we shall call Mr. Joel Newschool. To elucidate the matter more clearly, I would beg leave to say, that Mr. Joel Newschool, though now a wealthy and retired merchant, with all the "pomp and circumstance" of fortune around him, could—if he chose—well recollect the day when his little feet were shoeless, red and frost-bitten, as he plodded through the wheat and rye stubble of a Massachusetts farmer, for whom he acted in early life the trifling character of a "cow boy."

Yes, Joel could remember this if he chose; but to the vain heart of a proud millionaire, such reflections seldom come to the surface. Like hundreds of other instances in the history of our countrymen, by a prolonged life of enterprise and good luck, Joel Newschool found himself, at the age of four-and-sixty, a very wealthy, if not a happy man. With his growing wealth, grew up around him a large family. Having served an apprenticeship to farming, he allowed but a brief space to elapse between his freedom suit and portion, and his wedding-day. Joel and his young and fresh country spouse, with light hearts and lighter purses, came to Boston, settled, and thus we find them old and wealthy. In the heart and manners of Mrs. Newschool, fortune made but slight alteration; but the accumulation of dollars and exalted privileges that follow wealth, had wrought many changes in the heart and feelings of her husband.

The wear of time, which is supposed to dim the eye, seemed to improve the ocular views of Joel Newschool amazingly, for he had been enabled in his late years to see that a vast difference of caste existed between those that tilled the soil, wielded the sledge hammer, or drove the jack-plane, and those that were merely the idle spectators of such operations. He no longer groped in the darkness of men who believed in such fallacies as that wealth gave man no superiority over honest poverty! In short, Mr. Newschool had kept pace with all the fine notions and ostentatious feelings so peculiar to the mushroom aristocracy of the nineteenth century. He gloried in his pride, and yet felt little or none of that happiness that the bare-footed, merry cow boy enjoyed in the stubble field. But such is man.

With all his comfortable appurtenances wealth could buy and station claim, the retired merchant was not a happy man. Though his expensive carriage and liveried driver were seen to roll him regularly to the majestic church upon the Sabbath: though he was a patient listener to the massive organ's spiritual strains and the surpliced minister's devout incantations: though he defrauded no man, defamed not his neighbor, was seeming virtuous and happy, there was at his heart a pang that turned to lees the essence of his life.

Joel Newschool had seen his two sons and three daughters, men and women around him; they all married and left his roof for their own. One, a favorite child, a daughter, a fine, well-grown girl, upon whom the father's heart had set its fondest seal—she it was that the hand of Providence ordained to humble the proud heart of the sordid millionaire. Cecelia Newschool, actuated by the noblest impulses of nature, had for her husband sought "a man, not a money chest," and this circumstance had made Cecelia a severed member of the Newschool family, who could not, in the refined delicacy of their senses, tolerate such palpable condescension as to acknowledge a tie that bound them to the wife of a poor artizan, whatever might be his talents or integrity as a man.

Francis Fairway had made honorable appeal to the heart of Cecelia, and she repaid his pains with the full gift of a happy wife. She counted not his worldly prospects, but yielded all to his constancy. She wished for nothing but his love, and with that blessed beacon of life before her, she looked but with joy and hope to the bright side of the sunny future.

The home of the artizan was a plain, but a happy one. Loving and beloved, Cecelia scarce felt the loss of her sumptuous home and ties of kindred. But not so the proud father and the patient mother, the haughty sisters and brothers; they felt all; they attempted to conceal all, that bitterness of soul, the canker that gnaws upon the heart when we will strive to stifle the better parts of our natures.

Time passed on; one, two, or three years, are quickly passed and gone. Though this little space of time made little or no change in the families of the proud and indolent relatives, it brought many changes in the eventful life of the young artizan and his wife. Two sweet little babes nestled in the mother's arms, and a new and splendid invention of the poor mechanic was reaping the wonder and admiration of all Europe and America.

This was salt cast upon the affected wounds of the haughty relatives. Now ashamed of their petty, poor, contemptible arrogance, they could not in their hearts find space to welcome or partake of the proud dignity with which honorable industry had crowned the labors of the young mechanic.

It was a cold day in November; the wind was twirling and whistling through the trees on the Common; the dead leaves were dropping seared and yellow to the earth, admonishing the old gentleman whom we left drumming upon the window, that—

"Such was life!"

The old gentleman thumped and thumped the window pane with a dreary sotto voce accompaniment for some minutes, when he was interrupted by an aged, pious-looking matron, who dropped her spectacles across the book in her lap, as she sat in her chair by the fireside, and said—

"Joel."

"Umph?" responded the old gentleman.

"The Lord has spared us to see another Thanksgiving day, should we live to see to-morrow."

"He has," responded Mr. Newschool.

"I've been thinking, Joel, that how ungrateful to God we are, for the blessings, and prosperity, and long life vouchsafed to us, by a good and benevolent Almighty."

"Rebecca," said the faltering voice of the rich man, "I know, I feel all this as sensitive as you can possibly feel it."

"I was thinking, Joel," continued the good woman, "to-morrow we shall, God permitting, be with our children and friends once again, together."

"I hope so, I trust we shall," answered the husband.

"And I was thinking, Joel," resumed the wife, "that the exclusion of our own child, Cecelia, from the family re-unions, from joining us in returning thanks to God for his mercy and preservation of us, is cruel and offensive to Him we deign to render up our prayers."

"Rebecca," said the old gentleman, "I but agree with you in this, you have but anticipated my feelings in the matter. I have long fought against my better feelings and offended a discriminating God, I know. Ashamed to confess my stubbornness and frailty before, I now freely confess an altered feeling and better determination."

"Then, Joel, let our daughter Cecelia and her husband join with us to-morrow in rendering our thanks to a just God and kind Providence."

"Be it so, Rebecca. God truly knows it will be a millstone relieved from my heart. I wish it done."

Three family re-unions, three days of Thanksgiving had been held in the paternal mansion of the Newschools, since Cecelia had left it for the humble home of the poor artizan. But their several re-unions were clouded, gloomy, unsocial affairs; there was a gap in the social circle of the Newschool family, as they met on Thanksgiving day, which all felt, but none hinted at. It was hard for a parent to invoke blessings on a portion, but not all, of his own flesh and blood; it was hard to return thanks for those dear ones present, and wonder whether the absent and equally dear had aught to be thankful for, whether instead of health and comfort, they might not be sorrowing in disease, poverty, and despair! Such things as these, when they obtrude upon the mind, the soul, are not likely to make merry meetings. And such was the position and nature of the re-union upon the late Thanksgiving days, at the Newschool mansion. But better feelings were at work, and a happy change was at hand.

Several carriages had already drove up to the door of Mr. Newschool, Sen., and let down the different branches of the Newschool family. A brighter appearance seemed gathering over the household than was usual of late on Thanksgiving day, in the old family mansion. As each party came, the good old mother duly informed them of the invitation given, and the hope indulged in, that Cecelia and her husband would join the family circle that day, in their re-union.

The proud sisters seemed willing, at last, to cast away their pride, and greet their sister as became Christian and sensible women. The brothers, chagrined at the unmanliness of their conduct, now gladly joined their approval of what betokened, in fact, a happy family meeting. As the clock on old South Church tower pealed out eleven, a pretty, smiling young mother, in plain, but unexceptionable, neat attire, ascended the large stone steps of the Newschool mansion, with a light and graceful step, bearing a sleeping child in her arms.

Another moment, and Cecelia Fairway was in the arms of her old mother; the smiles, kisses and tears of the whole family party were bountifully showered upon poor Cecelia, and her sweet little daughter. Imagination may always better paint such a scene, than could the feeble pen describe it. The deep and gushing eloquence of human nature, when thus long pent, bursts forth, sweeping the meagre devises of the pen before it, like snow-flakes before the mighty mountain avalanche.

Oh! it was a happy sight, to see that party at their Thanksgiving dinner.

Old Mr. Newschool, in his long and fervent prayer to the throne of grace, expressed the day the happiest one of his long life. Quickly flew the hours by, and as the shades of evening gathered around, Francis Fairway was announced with a carriage for his wife's return home. Francis Fairway, the artizan, was a proud, high-minded man, conscious of his own position and merits, and scorned any base means to conciliate the favor and patronage of his superiors in rank, birth, or education. His deportment to the Newschool family was frank and manly; and they met it with a sense of just appreciation and dignity, that did them honor. Francis met a generous welcome, and the evening of Thanksgiving day was spent in a happy re-union indeed. Upon Cecelia's and her husband's return home, she found a small note thrust in the bosom of her child, bearing this inscription—

"Grandfather's Re-union gift to little Cecelia; Boston, Nov., 184-."

The note contained five $1000 bills on the old Granite Bank of Boston, and which were duly placed in the old Bank fire-proof, to the account of the little heir, the enterprise of the artizan having placed him above the necessity of otherwise disposing of Joel Newschool's gift to the grandchild.



Cabbage vs. Men.

Theodore Parker says, the cultivation of man is as noble and praiseworthy a science, as the cultivation of cabbage, or the garden sass! Says brother Theodore, "You don't cast garden-seed in the mire, over the rough broken ground, and exhibit your benefits. No, you dig, level, rake, and then sow your seed, you give them sunshine and water, you tear out the weeds that would choke your infant vegetables—why would you do less for the material man?" Pre-cisely! we pause for an answer, proposals received from the learned—until we go to press.



Wanted—A Young Man from the Country.

All of our mercantile cities are overrun with young men who have been bred for the counter or desk, and thousands of these genteel young gents find it any thing but an easy matter to find bread or situations half their time, in these crowded marts of men and merchandise. An advertisement in a New York or New Orleans paper, for a clerk or salesman, rarely fails to "turn up" a hundred needy and greedy applicants, in the course of a morning! In New York, where a vast number of these misguided young men are "manufactured," and continue to be manufactured by the regiment, for an already surfeited market, there are wretches who practise upon these innocent victims of perverted usefulness, a species of fraud but slightly understood.

By a confederacy with some experienced dry goods dealer, the proprietor of one of those agencies for procuring situations for young men, victims of misplaced confidence are put through at five to ten dollars each, somewhat after this fashion: Sharp, the keeper of the Agency, advertises for two good clerks, one book-keeper, five salesmen, ten waiters, &c., &c.; and, of course, as every steamboat, car and stage, running into New York, brings in a fresh importation of young men from the country, all fitted out in the knowledge box for salesmen, book-keepers and clerk-ships,—every morning, a new set are offered to be taken in and done for. Sharp demands a fee of five or ten dollars for obtaining a situation; victim forks over the amount, and is sent to Sharp number two, who keeps the dry goods shop; he has got through with a victim of yesterday, and is now ready for the fresh victim of to-day; for he makes it a point to put them through such a gamut of labor, vexatious man[oe]uvres and insolence, that not one out of fifty come back next day, and if they do—he don't want them! If the unsuspecting victim returns to the "Agency," he is lectured roundly for his incapacity or want of energy!—and advised to return to the country and recuperate.

Jeremiah Bumps having graduated with all the honors of Sniffensville Academy, and having many unmistakable longings for becoming a Merchant Prince, and seeing sights in a city; and having read an account of the great fortunes piled up in course of a few years, by poor, friendless country boys, like Abbot Lawrence, John Jacob Astor, he up and came right straight to Boston, having read it in the papers that clerks, salesmen, book-keepers, and so on, were wanted, dreadfully—"young men from the country preferred"—so he called on the suffering agent for the public, and paying down his fee, was sent off to an Importing House, on —— street, where a clerk and salesman were wanted. Jeremiah found his idea of an Importing House knocked into a disarranged chapeau, by finding the one in the "present case," a large and luminous store, filled up with paper boxes and sham bundles; while gaudily festooned, were any quantity of calicoes, cheap shawls, ribbons, tapes, and innumerable other tuppenny affairs.

Nebuchadnezzar Cheatum, the proprietor of this importing and jobbing house, was a keen, little, slick-as-a-whistle, heavy-bearded, shaved and starched genus, of six-and-thirty, more or less; and received Jeremiah with a rather patronizing survey personelle, and opened the engagement with a few remarks.

"From the country, are you?"

"Sniffensville, sir," said Jeremiah; "County of Scrub-oak, State of New Hampshire."

"Ah, well, I prefer country-bred young men; they are better trained," said Cheatum, "to industry, perseverance, honest frugality, and the duties of a Christian man. I was brought up in the country myself. I've made myself; carved out, and built up my own position, sir. Yes, sir, give me good, sound, country-bred young men; I've tried them, I know what they are," said Cheatum; and he spoke near enough the truth to be partly true, for he had "tried them;" he averaged some fifty-two clerks and an equal number of salesmen—yearly.

Jeremiah Bumps grew red in the face at the complimentary manner in which Nebuchadnezzar Cheatum was pleased to review the country and its institutions.

"What salary did you think of allowing?" says Jeremiah.

"Well," said Cheatum, "I allow my salesmen three dollars a week the first year, (Jeremiah's ears cocked up,) and three per cent. on the sales they make the second year."

By cyphering it up "in his head," Jeremiah came to the conclusion that the first year wouldn't add much to his pecuniary elevation, whatever the second did with its three per cents. But he was bound to try it on, anyhow.

"Now," said Cheatum, "in the first place, Solomon——"

"Jeremiah, if you please, sir," said the young man.

"Ah, yes, Thomas—pshaw!—Jediah, I would say," continued Cheatum, correcting himself—

"Jeremiah—Jeremiah Bumps, sir," sharply echoed Mr. Bumps.

"Oh, yes, yes; one has so many clerks and salesmen in course of business," said Cheatum, "that I get their names confused. Well, Jeremiah, in the first place, you must learn to please the customers; you must always be lively and spry, and never give an offensive answer. Many women and girls come in to price and overhaul things, without the remotest idea of buying anything, and it's often trying to one's patience; but you must wait on them, for there is no possible means of telling a woman who shops for pastime, from one who shops in earnest; so you must be careful, be polite, be lively and spry, and never let a person go without making a purchase, if you can possibly help it. If a person asks for an article we have not got, endeavor to make them try something else. If a woman asks whether four-penny calico, or six-penny delaines will wash, say 'yes, ma'am, beautifully; I've tried them, or seen them tried;' and if they say, 'are these ten cent flannels real Shaker flannels? or the ninepence hose all merino?' better not contradict them; say 'yes, ma'am, I've tried them, seen them tried, know they are,' or similar appropriate answers to the various questions that may be asked," said Cheatum.

"Yes, sir," Jeremiah responded, "I understand."

"And, William——"

"Jeremiah, sir, if you please."

"Oh, yes; well, Jediah—Jeremiah, I would say—when you make change, never take a ten cent piece and two cents for a shilling, but give it as often as practicable; look out for the fractions in adding up, and beware of crossed six-pences, smooth shillings, and what are called Bungtown coppers," said Cheatum, with much emphasis.

"I'm pooty well posted up, sir, in all that," said Jeremiah.

"And, Jeems—pshaw!—Jacob—Jeremiah! I would say, in measuring, always put your thumb so, and when you move the yardstick forward, shove your thumb an inch or so back; in measuring close you may manage to squeeze out five yards from four and three-quarters, you understand? And always be watchful that some of those nimble, light-fingered folks don't slip a roll of ribbon, or a pair of gloves or hose, or a piece of goods, up their sleeves, in their bosoms, pockets, or under their shawls. Be careful, Henry—Jeems, I should say," said Cheatum.

Being duly rehearsed, Jeremiah Bumps went to work. The first customer he had was a little girl, who bought a yard of ribbon for ninepence, and Jeremiah not only stretched seven-eighths of a yard into a full yard, but made twelve cents go for a ninepence, which feat brought down the vials of wrath of the child's mother, a burly old Scotch woman, who "tongue-lashed" poor Jeremiah awfully! His next adventure was the sale of a dress pattern of sixpenny de-laine, which he warranted to contain all the perfections known to the best article, and in dashing his vigorous scissors through the fabric, he caught them in the folds of a dozen silk handkerchiefs on the counter, and ripped them all into slitters! The young woman who took the dress pattern, upon reaching home, found it contained but eight yards, when she paid for nine. She came back, and Jeremiah Bumps got another bombasting! He sold fourpenny calico, and warranted it to wash; next day it came back, and an old lady with it; the colors and starch were all out, by dipping it in water, and the woman went on so that Cheatum was glad to refund her money to get rid of her. Two dashing young ladies, out "shopping" for their own diversions, gave Jeremiah a call; he labored hand and tongue, he hauled down and exhibited Cheatum's entire stock; the girls then were leaving, saying they would "call again," and Jeremiah very amiably said, "do, ladies, do; call again, like to secure your custom!" The young ladies took this as an insult. Their big brothers waited on Mr. Bumps, and nothing short of his humble apologies saved him from enraged cowhides! Jeremiah saw a suspicious woman enter the store, and after overhauling a box of gloves, he thought he saw her pocket a pair. He intercepted the lady as she was going out—he grabbed her by the pocket—the lady resisted—Jeremiah held on—the lady fainted, and Jeremiah Bumps nearly tore her dress off in pulling out the gloves! The lady proved to be the wife of a distinguished citizen, and the gloves purchased at another store! A lawsuit followed, and Mr. Bumps was fined $100, and sent to the House of Correction for sixty days.

How many new clerks Nebuchadnezzar Cheatum has put through since, we know not; but Jeremiah Bumps is now engaged in the practical science of agriculture, and shudders at the idea of a young man from the country being wanted in a dry goods shop, if they have got to see the elephant that he observed—in Boston.



Presence of Mind.

Mr. Davenport—the "Ned Davenport" of the Bowery boys—before sailing for Europe and while attached to the Bowery Theatre, was of the lean and hungry kind. In fact he was extremely lean—tall as a may-pole, and slender enough to crawl through a greased fleute,—to use a yankeeism.

Somebody "up" for Shylock one night, at the Bowery, was suddenly "indisposed" or, in the strongest probability, quite stupefied from the effect of the deadly poisons retailed in the numerous groggeries that really swarm near the Gotham play-houses. Well, Mr. Davenport—a gentleman who has reached a most honorable position in his profession by sobriety and talent—was substituted for the indisposed Shylock, and the play went on.

In the trial scene, Mr. Davenport really "took down the house" by his vehemence, and his ferocious, lean, and hungry aspirations for the pound of flesh! One of the b'hoys, so identical with the B'ow'ry pit, got quite worked up; he twisted and squirmed, he chewed his cud, he stroked his "soap-lock," but, finally, wrought up to great presence of mind,—our lean Shylock still calling for his pound of flesh,—roars out;—

"S'ay, look a' here,—why don't you give skinny de meat, don't you see he wants it, sa-a-a-y!"

We very naturally infer that "the piece" went off with a rush!



The Skipper's Schooner.

No better specimen of the genus, genuine Yankee nation, can be found, imagined or described, than the skippers of along shore, from Connecticut river to Eastport, Maine. These critters give full scope to the Hills and Hacketts of the stage, and the Sam Slicks and Falconbridges of the press, to embody and sketch out in the broadest possible dialect of Yankee land. One of these "tarnal critters," it is my purpose to draw on for my brief sketch, and I wish my readers to do me the credit to believe that for little or no portion of my yarn or language am I indebted to fertility of imagination, as the incidents are real, and quite graphic enough to give piquancy to the subject.

Last spring, just after the breaking up of winter, a down-east smack or schooner, freighted with cod-fish and potatoes, I believe, rounded off Cape Ann light, and owing to head winds, or some other perversity of a nautical nature, could no further go; so the skipper and his crew—one man, green as catnip—made for an anchorage, and hove the "hull consarn" to. Here they lay, and tossed and chafed, at their moorings, for a day or two, without the slightest indication on the part of the weather to abate the nuisance. So the commander of the schooner got in his little "dug-out," and giving the aforesaid crew special injunctions to keep all fast, he pulled off to shore to take a look around.

Now, it so fell out that in the course of a few hours' time after the departure of the skipper, a snorting east wind sprang up, and not only blew great guns, but chopped up a short, heavy sea, perfectly astonishing and alarming to Hezekiah Perkins, in the rolling and pitching schooner. It was Hez's first attempt at seafaring; and this sort of reeling and waltzing about, as a matter of course, soon discomboberated his bean basket, and set his head in a whirl and dancing motion—better conceived by those who have seen the sea elephant than described. Hez got dea-a-athly sick, so sick he could not budge from the stern sheets, where he had taken a squat in the early commencement of his difficulties. In the mean time, the skipper came down to the beach and hailed the victim:

"Hel-LO! hel-LO!"

Hez feebly elevated his optics, and looking to the windward, where stood his noble captain, he made an effort to say over something:

"Wha-a-t ye-e-e want?"

"What do I want? Why, yeou pesky critter, yeou, go for'ard thar and hist the jib, take up the anchor, put your helm a-lee, and beat up to town!"

This was all very well, provided the skipper was there to superintend, manage and carry out his voluble orders; but as the surf prevented him from coming on board, and the lightness of Hez's head militated against the almost superhuman possibility of carrying out the skipper's orders, things remained in statu quo, the skipper ashore, and Hez fervently wishing he was too.

"Ain't you a-going to stir round there, and save the vessel?" bawled the excited captain.

"How on airth," groaned the horror-stricken mariner, "how on airth am I to help it?"

"Wall, by Columbus, she'll go clean ashore, or blow eout to sea afore long, sure as death!" responded the skipper; and before he had fairly concluded his augury, sure enough, the halser parted, the schooner slew round and made a bee-line for Cowes and a market! This rather brought Hezekiah to his oats—he riz, tottering and feeble, on his shaky pins, and crawled forward to get up the jib.

"O ye-s, now yeou're coming about it, yes, yeou be," bawled the almost frantic skipper, as the distance between him and his vessel was increasing. "Put her abeout and head her up the ba-a-y!" But it was no kind of use in talking, for Hezekiah could not raise the jib; and his imperfect nautical knowledge, under such a snarl, completely bewildered and disgusted him with the prospect. So saying over the seven commandments and other serious lessons of youth, Hezekiah resigned himself to the tumultuous elements, and concluded it philosophical and scriptural resignation to let Providence and the old schooner fix out the programme just as they might. It is commonly reported, that our mackerel catchers, when a storm or gale overtakes them on the briny deep, lash all fast and go below, turn in and let their smacks rip along to the best of their knowledge and ability. They seldom founder or get severely scathed; and these facts, or perfect indifference, having entered the head of Hezekiah Perkins, he became perfectly unconcerned as to future developments. Night coming on, the skipper saw his schooner fast departing out to sea, and when she was no longer to be seen, he made tracks for Boston, to report the melancholy facts to the owners of the vessel and cargo, and see about the insurance.

Next morning, the skipper having discovered that the insurance was safe, he found himself in better spirits; so he walked down along the wharves, to take a look out upon the bay and shipping—when lo, and behold, he sees a vessel so amazingly like his Two Pollies, that he could not refrain from exclaiming:

"Hurrah! hurrah! By Christopher Columbus—if thar don't come my old beauty and Hez Perkins, too—hurrah!"

The overjoyed skipper went off into a double hornpipe on a single string; and as the veritable schooner came booming saucily up the bay before a spanking breeze, with her jib spread, the skipper called out in a voice of thunder and gladness:

"Hel-lo! Hez Perkins, is that yeou?"

"Hel-lo! Cap'n, I'm coming, by pumpkins! Clear the track for the Two Pollies!" And putting her head in among the smacks of Long Wharf, Hez let her rip and smash chock up fast and tight. When the captain landed on his own deck, he rushed into the arms of his brave mate Hezekiah, and they had a regular fraternal hug all round—and Hezekiah Perkins, in behalf of his wonderful skill, perseverance and luck, was unanimously voted first mate of the Two Pollies on the spot. It appeared that a change of wind during the night had driven the wandering vessel back into the bay, and Hezekiah, having got over his sick spell by daylight, crawled forward, got up the jib, and actually made the wharf, as we have described.



Philosophy of the Times.

The philosophy of the present age is peculiarly the philosophy of outsides. Few dive deeper into the human breast than the bosom of the shirt. Who could doubt the heart that beats beneath a cambric front? or who imagine that hand accustomed to dirty work which is enveloped in white kid? What Prometheus was to the physical, the tailor is to the moral man—the one made human beings out of clay, the other cuts characters out of broadcloth. Gentility is, with us, a thing of the goose and shears.



The Emperor and the Poor Author.

"The pen is mightier than the sword."

Great men are not the less liable or addicted to very small, and very mean, and sometimes very rascally acts, but they are always fortunate in having any amount of panegyric graven on marble slabs, shafts and pillars, o'er their dust, and eulogistic and profound histories written in memories of the deeds of renown and glory they have executed. An American 74-gun ship would hardly float the mountains of tomes written upon Bonaparte and his brilliant career, as a soldier and a conqueror; but how precious few, insignificant pages do we ever see of the misdeeds, tyrannies and acts of petty and contemptuous meanness so great a man was guilty of! Why should authors and orators be so reluctant to tell the truth of a great man's follies and crimes, seeing with what convenience and fluency they will lie for him? We contend, and shall contend, that a truly great man cannot be guilty of a small act, and that one contemptible or atrocious manifestation in man, is enough to sully—tarnish the brightness of a dozen brilliant deeds; but apparently, the accepted notion is—vice versa.

In 1830, there lived in the city of Philadelphia, a barber, a poor, harmless, necessary barber. His antique, or most curious costume, attracted much attention about the vicinity in which he lived, and no doubt added somewhat to the custom of his shop, itself a bijou as curious almost as the proprietor. But as our story has but little to do with the queer outside of the barber or his shop, and we do not now purpose a whole history of the man, we shall at once proceed to the pith of our subject—the Emperor and the poor Author, or Napoleon and his Spies—and in which our aforesaid Philadelphia barber plays a conspicuous part.

Some of the writers, a few of those partially daring enough to give an impartial expose of the history of the Bonapartean times, seem to think that Napoleon committed a great error in his accession to the throne, by doubting the stability of his reign, and having pursued exactly measures antipodean to those necessary to seat him firmly in the hearts of the people, and cement the foundation of his newly-acquired power. But we don't think so; the means by which he obtained the giddy height, to a comprehensive mind like his, at once suggested the necessity of vigilance, promptness, and unflinching execution of whatever act, however tyrannous or heartless it might have been, his unsleeping mind suggested—

"Crowns got with blood, by blood must be maintained."

Jealous and suspicious, he sought to shackle public opinion—the fearful hydra to all ambitious aspirants—to know all secrets of the time and states, and render one half of the great nations he held in his grasp spies upon the other! The most profligate principles of Machiavel sink into obscurity when contrasted with the Imperial Espionage of Napoleon. When no longer moving squadrons in the tented field—whole armies, like so many pieces of chess in the hands of a dexterous player—he sat upon his throne, reclined upon his lounge or smoked in his bath, organized and moved the most difficult and dangerous forces in the world—an army of Spies!

All ages, from that of infancy to decrepitude—all conditions of life, from peer to parvenu—from plough to the anvil—pulpit to the bar—orators and beggars, soldiers and sailors, male and female of every grade—men of the most insinuating address, and women of the most seductive ages and loveliness, grace and beauty were enlisted and trained to serve—in what the pot-bellied, bald-headed little monster of war used to call his Cytherian Cohort! Snares set by these imperial policemen were difficult to avoid, from the almost utter impossibility of suspicioning their presence or power.

In 1808, a learned Italian, noble by birth, in consequence of the movements and executions of Napoleon, found it prudent to shave off his moustache and titles, and change the scene of his future life, as well as change his name. A master of languages and a man of mind, he sought the learned precincts of Leipsic, Germany, where he preserved his incognito, though he was not long in winning the grace, and other considerations due enlarged intellect, from those not lacking that invaluable commodity themselves. Herr Beethoven—the new title of our Italian "mi lord"—conceived the project of convincing the mighty Emperor—the hero of the sword—that so little a javelin as the pen could puncture the sac containing all his great pretensions, and let the vapor out; in short, to show the conqueror, that the pen was mightier than his magic sword. Beethoven purposed writing a pamphlet memorial, involving the bombastic pretensions, the gigantic extravagance and arrogant ambition of Bonaparte. The man of letters well knew the ground upon which he was to tread, the danger of ambushed foes, involving such a brochure, and the caution necessary with which he was to produce his work. But Beethoven felt the necessity of the production; he possessed the power to execute a great benefit to his fellow man, and he determined to wield it and take the chances. Though scarcely giving breath to his project—guarding each page of his writing as vigilantly as though they were each blessed with the enchantment of a Koh-i-Noor—a mysterious agency discovered the fact—Napoleon shook in his royal boots, and swore in good round French, when the following missive reached his royal eye:—

Sire(!)—A plot is brewing against your peace; the safety of your throne is menaced by a villainous scribe. My informant, who has read the manuscripts, informs me that he has never seen any thing better or more imposing, and ingenious in argument and force, than the fellow's appeal to all the crowned heads and people of Europe. It is calculated to carry an irresistible conviction of the wrongs they suffer from your imperial majesty to every breast. These manuscripts are fraught with more danger to your Imperial Majesty's Empire, than all the hostile bayonets in the world combined against you, Sire.

Leipsic, 1808. Baron De——.

Here was a hot shot dangling over the magazines of the mighty man, and the "little corporal" jumped into his boots, and began to set the wheels of his great "expediency" in motion. A message flew here, and another there; a dispatch to this one, and a royal order to that one. A dozen secretaries, and a score of amanuensises were instantly at work, and the alarmed "Emperor of all the French" fairly beat the reveille upon his diamond-cased snuff box; while, with the rapidity of the clapper of an alarm bell, he issued to each the oral order to which they were to lend enchantment by their rapid quills.

Herr Beethoven was surprised in his very closet! Papers were found scattered all over his little sanctum—the spies had him and his effects, most promptly; but what was the rage and disappointment of the emissaries of the wily monarch, to find neither hair nor hide of the dreaded fiat! Had it gone forth? Was it secreted? Was it written?

They had the man, but his flesh and blood were as valueless as a pebble to a diamond, contrasted with the witchery of the words he had invested a few sheets of simple paper with! They searched his clothes—tore up his bed, broke up his furniture, powdered his few pieces of statuary, but all in vain—the sought for, dreaded, and hated documents, for which his Imperial highness would have secretly given ten—twenty—fifty thousand louis—was not to be found! The rage of the inquisitors was terrific—showing how well they were chosen or paid, to serve in their atrocious capacities. The poor scribe was promised all manner of unpleasant finales, cursed, menaced, and finally coaxed.

"I have written nothing—published nothing, nor do I intend to write or publish anything," was Beethoven's reply.

"Speak fearlessly," said the chief of the inquisitors, "and rely upon a generous monarch's benevolence. My commission, sir, is limited to ascertain whether poverty has not compelled you to write; if that be the case, speak out; place any price upon your work—the price is nothing—I will pay you at once and destroy your documents."

"Your offers, sir," responded the poor author, "are most kind and liberal, and I regret extremely that it is not in my power to avail myself of them. I again declare, sir, that I have never written anything against the French government—your information to the contrary is false and wicked."

The spies, finding they could not gain any information of the author, by threat or bribe, carried him to France, where his doom was supposed to be sealed in torture and death, in the Bastile of the Emperor.

But where was this fearful manuscript—this dreaded scribbling of the God-forsaken, poor, forlorn author? The emissaries of his serene highness had the blood, bones, and body of the wretched scribe, but where was that they feared more than all the warlike forces of a million of the best equipped forces of Europe—the paltry paper pellets of a scholar's brain—the memorial to the crowned heads, and people of the several shivering monarchies of continental Europe?

A few brief hours—not two days—before the pseudo Herr Beethoven was honored by the special considerations and attentions of the Emperor of all the French—the conqueror of a third, at least, of the civilized world—he had conceived suspicions of a man to whom in the most profound confidence he had revealed a slight whisper of his projects—impressed with the foreshadowing that a mysterious something dangerous was about to menace him, he made way with the manuscripts, to which his soul clung as too dear and precious to be destroyed—he gave them to the charge of a tried friend—and before the Cytherian Cohort were upon the threshold of the author, his memorial was snugly ensconced in the obscure and remote secretary of a gentleman and a man of letters, in the renowned city of Prague. The alarm and friend's appearance seemed most opportune—for an hour after the visitation of the one, the other was at hand—the documents transferred and on their way to their place of refuge.

But difficult was the stepping-stone to Napoleon's greatness—the more the mystery of the manuscripts augmented—the more enthusiastic became his research—the more formidable appeared the necessity of grasping them; and the determination, at all hazards, to clutch them, before they served their purpose!

"Bring me the manuscripts"—was the fiat of the Emperor: "I care not how you obtain them—get them, bring them here; and mark you, let neither money, danger nor fatigue, oppose my will. Hence—bring the manuscripts!"

Again Leipsic was invested by the Cytherian Cohort of the modern Alexander; the rival of Hannibal, the great little commandant of the most warlike nation of the earth. The Baron ——, who was master of ceremonies in this great enterprise, now arrested the secret agent who had given the information of the existence of the memorial. This wretch had received five hundred crowns for his espionage and treachery. His fee was to be quadrupled if his atrocious information proved correct; so dear is the mere foreshadowing of ill news to vaunting ambition and quaking imposters. Bengert, the German spy, was sure of the genuineness of his information—he was much astonished that the Baron had not seized the memorial, as well as the body of the hapless author. The Baron and the treacherous German conferred at length; an idea seemed to strike the spy.

"I have it," he exclaimed, a few days before his arrest. "I saw a friend visit Beethoven; I know they both entertained the same sentiments in regard to the Emperor—that man has the manuscripts."

Where was that man? It was finding the needle in the hay stack—the pebble in the brook. Again the Emperor urged, and the Cytherian Cohort plied their cunning and perseverance. That friend of the poor author was found—he was tilling his garden, surrounded by his flower pots and children, on the outskirts of Prague, Bohemia. It was in vain he questioned his captors. He dropped his gardening implements—blessed his children—kissed them, and was hurried off, he knew not whither or wherefore! Shaubert was this man's name; he was forty, a widower—a scholar, a poet—liberally endowed by wealth, and loved the women!

It was Baron ——'s province to find out the weak points of each victim.

"If he has a particular regard for poetry, he does love the fine arts," quoth the Baron, "and women are the queens of fine arts. I'll have him!"

In the secret prison of Shaubert he found an old man, confined for—he could not learn what. Every day, the yet youthful and most fascinating, voluptuous and beautiful daughter of the old man, visited his cell, which was adjoining that of Shaubert's. As she did so, it was not long before she found occasion to linger at the door of the widower, the poet—and sigh so piteously as to draw from the victim, at first a holy poem, and at length an amative love lay. Like fire into tow did this effusion of the poet's quill inflame the breast and arouse the passions of the lovely Bertha; and in an obscure hour, after pouring forth the soul's burden of most vehement love, the angel in woman's form(!), with implements as perfect as the very jailor's, opened all the bolts and bars, and led the captive forth to liberty! She would have the poet who had entranced her, fly and leave her to her fate! But poetry scorned such dastardy—it was but to brave the uncertainty of fate to stay, and torture to go—Bertha must fly with him. She had a father—could she leave him in bondage? No! She had rescued her lover—she braved more—released her parent in the next hour, by the same mysterious means, and giving herself up to the tempest of love, she shared in the flight of the poet. In a remote section of chivalric Bohemia, they found an asylum. But Bertha was as yet but the deliverer from bondage, if not death, of her soul's idol; he, with all the warmth and gratitude of a dozen poets, worshipped at her feet and besought her to bless him evermore by sharing his fate and fortune. There was a something imposing, a something that brought the pearly tear to the heroic girl's eye and made that lovely bosom undulate with most sad emotion. The poet pressed her to his heart—fell at her feet, and begged that if his life—property—children—be the sacrifice—but let him know the secret at once—he was her friend—defender—lover—slave. Another sigh, and the spell was broken.