"Why—ah! why were you a state prisoner—a secret prisoner in the ——?"

"Loved angel," answered the poet, "I scarce can tell; indeed I have not the merest hint, in my own mind, to tell me for what I was arrested and thrown into prison!"

"Ah! sir," sighed the lovely Bertha, "I can never then wed the man I love—I cannot brave the dangers of an unknown fate—at some moment least expected, to be torn from his arms—lost to him forever!"

"We can fly, dearest," suggested the poet, "we can fly to other and more secure lands. In the sunshine of your sweet smile, my dear Bertha, obscurity—poverty would be nothing."

"No," said the girl, "I cannot leave my father—the land of my birth—home of my childhood. I that have given you liberty, may point out a way to deliver you from further restraint. How I learned the nature of your crime, ask not; I know your secret."

"Ah! what mean you?"

"In a foolish hour," continued the lovely Bertha, with downcast eyes and heaving bosom, "you impaled your generous self to save a friend—the friend fled—you were arrested—"

"Good God!" exclaimed the poet, "Herr Beethoven——"

"Gave you possession of——" she continued.

"No! no! no!" interposed the affrighted poet, daring not to breathe "yes," even to the ear of his fair preserver.

"Sir," calmly continued the girl, "I have risked my own life and liberty to preserve yours, I have——"

"I—I know it all, dear—dearest angel, but——"

"Those manuscripts," she continued, fixing her keen but melting gaze upon the poor victim.

"Ha! manuscripts? How learned you this? No, no, it cannot be——"

"It is known—I know it—I learned it from your captors; but for my love," said the girl, "mad—guilty love—your life would have been forfeited—your house pillaged by the emissaries of the Emperor, in quest of those manuscripts. While they exist, Bertha cannot be happy—Bertha's love must die with her—Bertha be ever miserable!"

"I-a—I will—but no! no! I have no manuscripts! It is false—false!" exclaimed the almost distracted poet.

"Herr Shaubert," said the girl, clasping the hand of the poet, and throwing herself at his feet, "am I unworthy your love?"

"Dear, dear Bertha, do not torture me! do not, for God's sake! Rise; let me at your feet swear, in answer—No!"

"Then, within four-and-twenty hours, let me grasp that hated, damned viper, that would gnaw the heart's core of Bertha. Give me the key of your misery; O! bless me—bless your Bertha; give me those accursed manuscripts, daggers bequeathed you by a false friend, that I may at once, in your presence, give them to the flames; and Bertha, the idol of your soul, be ever more blessed and happy!"

This appeal settled the business of the poet; he walked the room, sighed, tore his mouchoir, oscillated between honor and temptation—the angel form and syren tongue of the woman triumphed. In course of a dozen hours, Bertha, the lovely, enchanting spy, opened the secret drawers of the poet's secretary, and amid carefully-packed literary rubbish, the dreaded memorial was found—clutched with the eagerness of a death-reprieve to a poor felon upon the verge of eternity, and with the despatch of an hundred swift relays, the poor author's manuscripts were placed in the hands of the mighty Emperor, and while he read their fearful purport, and flashed with rage or grew livid with each scathing word of the memorial, he hurriedly issued his orders—gain to this one, sacrifice to that one; while he made the spy a countess, he ordered hideous death to the poor poet and despair and misery to his children.

"Fly!" the monarch shouted, "search every one suspected of a hand in this; let them be dealt with instantly—trouble me not with detail, but give me sure returns. Stop not, until this viper is exterminated; egg and tooth; fang and scale; see it done and claim my bounty—fly!"

That snake was scotched and killed—the few brief pages of an obscure author that drove sleep, appetite and peace from the mighty Emperor, for days and nights—made busy work for his thousands of emissaries—scattered his gold in weighty streams—was read, cursed and destroyed, and all suspected as having the slightest voice or opinion in the secret memorial, met a secret fate—death or prolonged wretchedness.

Herr Beethoven, the poor author, alone escaped; being overlooked in the hot pursuit of his production, and by the blunder of those having charge of himself and hundreds of other state prisoners—guilty or suspected opponents to the vaulting ambition and power of him that at last ended his own eventful career as a helpless prisoner upon an ocean isle—was liberated and lost no time in making his way beyond the reach of monarchs, tyranny and bondage. Beethoven came to America and settled in Philadelphia, where, in the humble capacity of an e-razer of beards and pruner of human mops, he eked out a reasonable existence for the residue of his earthly existence; few, perhaps, dreaming in their profoundest philosophy, that the little, eccentric-attired, grotesque-looking barber, who tweaked their plebeian noses and combed their caputs, once rejoiced in grand heraldic escutcheons upon his carriage panels as a veritable Count, and still later made the throne tremble beneath the feet of a second Alexander!

But God is great, and the ways of our every-day life, full of change and mystery.



The Bigger Fool, the Better Luck.

The American "Ole Bull," young Howard, one of the most scientific crucifiers of the violin we ever heard, gave us a call t'other day, and not only discoursed heavenly music upon his instrument, but gave us the "nub" of a few jokes worth dishing up in our peculiar style. Howard spent last winter in a tour over the State of Maine and Canada. During this cool excursion, he got way up among the wood-choppers and log-men of the Aroostook and Penobscot country. These wood-chopping and log-rolling gentry, according to all accounts, must be a jolly, free-and-easy, hard-toiling and hardy race. The "folks" up about there live in very primitive style; their camps and houses are very useful, but not much addicted to the "ornamental." Howard had a very long, tedious and perilous tramp, on foot, during a part of his peregrinations, and coming at last upon the settlement of the log-men, he laid up several days, to recuperate. In the largest log building of the several in the neighborhood, Howard lodged; the weather was intensely cold—house crowded, and wood and game plenty. After a hard day's toil, in snow and water, these log-men felt very much inclined, to sleep. A huge fire was usually left upon the hearth, after the "tea things" were put away, Howard gave them a choon or two, and then the woodmen lumbered up a rude set of steps—into a capacious loft overhead, and there, amid the old quilts, robes, skins and straw, enjoyed their sound and refreshing sleep—with a slight drawback.

Among these men of the woods, was a hard old nut, called and known among them as—Old Tantabolus! He was a wiry and hardy old rooster; though his frosty poll spoke of the many, many years he had "been around," his body was yet firm and his perceptions yet clear. The old man was a grand spinner of yarns; he had been all around creation, and various other places not set down in the maps. He had been a soldier and sailor: been blown up and shot down: had had all the various ills flesh was heir to: suffered from shipwreck and indigestion: witnessed the frowns and smiles of fortune—especially the frowns; in short, according to old man Tantabolus's own account of himself, he had seen more ups and downs, and made more narrow and wonderful escapes, than Robinson Crusoe and Gulliver both together—with Baron Trenck into the bargain!

For the first season, the old man and his narrations, being fresh and novel, he was quite a lion among the woodmen, but now that the novelty had worn off, and they'd got used to his long yarns, they voted him "an old bore!" The old fellow smoked a tremendous pipe, with tobacco strong enough to give a Spaniard the "yaller fever." He would eat his supper, light his pipe—sit down by the fire, and spin yarns, as long as a listener remained, and longer. In short, Old Tantabolus would spin them all to bed, and then make their heads spin, with the clouds of baccy smoke with which he'd fill the ranche.

Going to bed, at length, on a bunk in a corner, the old chap would wheeze and snore for an hour or two, and then turning out again, between daybreak and midnight, Old Tantabolus would pile on a cord or two of fresh wood—raise a roaring fire—make the ranche hot enough to roast an ox, then treat all hands to another stifling with his old calumet, and nigger-head tobacco! Then would commence a—

"A-booh! oo-oo!" by one of the lodgers, overhead.

"Boo-oo-ooh! Old Tantabolus's got that—booh-oo-oo-oo,—pipe of his'n again,—boo-oo-oo!" chimed another.

"A-a-a-chee! oo-oo-augh-h-h-ch-chee! Cuss that—a-chee—pipe. Tantabolus, you old hoss-marine, put out that—a-chee!—darn'd old pipe!" bawled another.

"A'nand?" was the old fellow's usual reply.

"A-boo-ooh-ooh!" hoarse and loud as a boatswain's call, in a gale of wind, would be issued from the throat of an old "logger," as the fumigacious odor interfered with his respiratory arrangements, and then would follow a miscellaneous—

"A-chee-o! Ah-chee! boo-ooh-oo-ooh!" tapering off with divers curses and threats, upon Old Tantabolus and his villanous habits of arousing "the whole community" in "the dead watches and middle of the night," with heat and smoke, no flesh and blood but his own could apparently endure.

At length, a private caucus was held, and a diabolical plan set, to put a summary end to the grievous nuisances engendered by Old Tantabolus—"let's blow him up!"

And this they agreed to do in this wise. Before "retiring to rest," as we say in civilized parlance, the lodging community were in the habit of laying in a surplus of firewood, alongside of the capacious fire-place, in order—should a very common occurrence occur,—i. e., a fall of snow six to ten feet deep, and kiver things all up, the insiders might have wherewith to make themselves comfortable, until they could work out and provide more. But Old Tantabolus was in the wasteful practice of turning out and burning up all this extra fuel; so the caucus agreed to bore an inch and a quarter hole into a solid stick—pack it with powder—lay it among the wood, and when Old Tantabolus riz to fire up, he'd be blowed out of the building, and disappear—in a blue blaze! Well, poor old man, Tantabolus, quite unconscious of the dire explosion awaiting him, told his yarns, next evening, with greater gusto than usual, and one after another of his listeners finally dropped off to roost, in the loft above, leaving the old man to go it alone—finish his pipe, stagnate the air and go to his bunk, which, as was his wont to do—he did. Stillness reigned supreme; though Old Tantabolus took his usual snooze in very apparent confidence, many of his no less weary companions above—watched for the approaching tableaux! And they were gratified, to their heart's content, for the tableaux came!

"Now, look out, boys!" says one, "Old Tanty's about to wake up!" and then some dozen of the upper story lodgers, who had kept their peepers open to enjoy the fun, began to spread around and pull away the loose straw in order to get a view of the scene below. Sure enough, the old rooster gave a long yawn—"Aw-w-w-w-um!" flirted off his "kiverlids" and got up, making a slow move towards the fire-place, reaching which, he gave an extra "Aw-w-w-um!" knocked the ashes out of his pipe—filled it up with "nigger-head," dipped it in the embers, gave it a few whiffs, and then said:

"Booh! cold mornin'; boys'll freeze, if I don't start up a good fire." Then he went to work to cultivate a blaze, with a few chips and light sticks of dry wood.

"Ah, by George, old feller," says one, "you'll catch a bite, before you know it!"

"Yes, I'm blamed if you ain't a goner, Old Tantabolus!" says another, in a pig's whisper.

"There! there he's got the fire up—now look out!"

"He's got the stick—"

"Goin' to clap it on!"

"Now it's on!"

"Look out for fun, by George, look out!"

"He'll blow the house up!"

"Godfrey! s'pose he does?"

"What an infernal wind there is this morning!" says the old fellow, hearing the buzz and indistinct whispering overhead; "guess it's snowin' like sin; I'll jist start up this fire and go out and see." But, he had scarcely reached and opened the door, when—"bang-g-g!" went the log, with the roar of a twelve pounder; hurling the fire, not only all over the lower floor, but through the upper loose flooring—setting the straw beds in a blaze—filling the house with smoke, ashes and fire! There was a general and indiscriminate rush of the practical jokers in the loft, to make an escape from the now burning building; but the step-ladder was knocked down, and it was at the peril of their lives, that all hands jumped and crawled out of the ranche! The only one who escaped the real danger was Old Tantabolus, the intended victim, whose remark was, after the flurry was over—"Boys, arter this, be careful how you lay your powder round!"



An Active Settlement.

Gen. Houston lives, when at home, at Huntsville, Texas; the inhabitants mostly live, says Humboldt, Beeswax, Borax, or some of the other historians, by hunting. The wolves act as watchmen at night, relieved now and then by the Ingins, who make the wig business brisk by relieving straggling citizens of their top-knots. A man engaged in a quiet smoke, sees a deer or bear sneaking around, and by taking down his rifle, has steaks for breakfast, and a haunch for next day's dinner, right at his door. Vegetables and fruit grow naturally; flowers come up and bloom spontaneously. The distinguished citizens wear buck-skin trowsers, coon-skin hats, buffalo-skin overcoats, and alligator-hide boots. Old San Jacinto walked into the Senate last winter—fresh from home—with a panther-skin vest, and bear-skin breeches on! Great country, that Texas.



A Yankee in a Pork-house

"Conscience sakes! but hain't they got a lot of pork here?" said a looker-on in Quincy Market, t'other day.

"Pork!" echoes a decidedly Green Mountain biped, at the elbow of the first speaker.

"Yes, I vow it's quite as-tonishing how much pork is sold here and et up by somebody," continued the old gent.

"Et up?" says the other, whose physical structure somewhat resembled a fat lath, and whose general contour made it self-evident that he was not given much to frivolity, jauntily-fitting coats and breeches, or perfumed and "fixed up" barberality extravagance.

"Et up!" he thoughtfully and earnestly repeated, as his hands rested in the cavity of his trousers pockets, and his eyes rested upon the first speaker.

"You wern't never in Cincinnatty, I guess?"

"No, I never was," says the old gent.

"Never was? Well, I cal'lated not. Never been in a Pork-haouse?"

"Never, unless you may call this a Pork-house?"

"The-is? Pork-haouse?" says Yankee. "Well, I reckon not—don't begin—'tain't nothin' like—not a speck in a puddle to a Pork-haouse—a Cincinnatty Pork-haouse!"

"I've hearn that they carry on the Pork business pooty stiff, out there," says the old gentleman.

"Pooty stiff? Good gravy, but don't they? 'Pears to me, I knew yeou somewhere?" says our Yankee.

"You might," cautiously answers the old gent.

"'Tain't 'Squire Smith, of Maoun-Peelier?"

"N'no, my name's Johnson, sir."

"Johnson? Oh, in the tin business?"

"Oh, no, I'm not in business, at all, sir," was the reply.

"Not? Oh,"—thoughtfully echoes Yankee. "Wall, no matter, I thought p'raps yeou were from up aour way—I'm from near Maoun-Peelier—State of Varmount."

"Ah, indeed?"

"Ya-a-s."

"Fine country, I'm told?" says the old gent.

"Ye-a-a-s, 'tis;"—was the abstracted response of Yankee, who seemed to be revolving something in his own mind.

"Raise a great deal of wool—fine sheep country?"

"'Tis great on sheep. But sheep ain't nothin' to the everlasting hog craop!"

"Think not, eh?" said the old gent.

"I swow teu pucker, if I hain't seen more hogs killed, afore breakfast, in Cincinnatty, than would burst this buildin' clean open!"

"You don't tell me so?"

"By gravy, I deu, though. You hain't never been in Cincinnatty?"

"I said not."

"Never in a Pork-haouse?"

"Never."

"Wall, yeou've hearn tell—of Ohio, I reckon?"

"Oh, yes! got a daughter living out there," was the answer.

"Yeou don't say so?"

"I have, in Urbana, or near it," said the old gent.

"Urbanny! Great kingdom! why I know teu men living aout there; one's trading, t'other's keepin' school; may be yeou know 'em—Sampson Wheeler's one, Jethro Jones's t'other. Jethro's a cousin of mine; his fa'ther, no, his mother married—'tain't no matter; my name's Small,—Appogee Small, and I was talkin'——"

"About the hog crop, Cincinnatty Pork-houses."

"Ye-a-a-s; wall, I went eout West last fall, stopped at Cincinnatty—teu weeks. Dreadful nice place; by gravy, they do deu business there; beats Salvation haow they go it on steamboats—bust ten a day and build six!"

"Is it possible?" says the old gent; "but the hogs——"

"Deu beat all. I went up to the Pork-haouses;—fus thing you meet is a string—'bout a mile long, of big and little critters, greasy and sassy as sin; buckets and bags full of scraps, tails, ears, snaouts and ribs of hogs. Foller up this line and yeou come to the Pork-haouses, and yeou go in, if they let yeou, and they did me, so in I went, teu an almighty large haouse—big as all aout doors, and a feller steps up to me and says he:—

"'Yeou're a stranger, I s'pose?'

"'Yeou deu?' says I.

"'Ye-a-a-s,' says he, 'I s'pose so,' and I up and said I was.

"'Wall,' says he, 'ef you want to go over the haouse, we'll send a feller with you!'

"So I went with the feller, and he took me way back, daown stairs—aout in a lot; a-a-a-nd everlastin' sin! yeou should jist seen the hogs—couldn't caount 'em in three weeks!"

"Good gracious!" exclaims the old gent.

"Fact, by gravy! Sech squealin', kickin' and goin' on; sech cussin' and hollerin', by the fellers pokin' 'em in at one eend of the lot and punchin' on 'em aout at t'other! Sech a smell of hogs and fat, brissels and hot water, I swan teu pucker, I never did cal'late on, afore!

"Wall, as fast as they driv' 'em in by droves, the fellers kept a craowdin' 'em daown towards the Pork-haouse; there two fellers kept a shootin' on 'em daown, and a hull gang of the all-firedest dirty, greasy-looking fellers aout—stuck 'em, hauled 'em daown, and afore yeou could say Sam Patch! them hogs were yanked aout of the lot—killed—scalded and scraped."

"Mighty quick work, I guess," says the old gent.

"Quick work? Yeou ought to see 'em. Haow many hogs deu yeou cal'late them fellers killed and scraped a day?"

"Couldn't possibly say—hundreds, I expect."

"Hundreds! Grea-a-at King! Why, I see 'em kill thirteen hundred in teu hours;—did, by golly!"

"Yeou don't say so?"

"Yes, sir. And a feller with grease enough abaout him to make a barrel of saft soap, said that when they hurried 'em up some they killed, scalded and scraped ten thousand hogs in a day; and when they put on the steam, twenty thousand porkers were killed off and cut up in a single day!"

"I want to know!"

"Yes, sir. Wall, we went into the haouse, where they scalded the critters fast as they brought 'em in. By gravy, it was amazin' how the brissels flew! Afore a hog knew what it was all abaout, he was bare as a punkin—a hook and tackle in his snaout, and up they snaked him on to the next floor. I vow they kept a slidin' and snakin' 'em in and up through the scuttles—jest in one stream!

"'Let's go up and see 'em cut the hogs,' says the feller.

"Up we goes. Abaout a hundred greasy fellers were a hacken on 'em up. By golly, it was deth to particular people the way the fat and grease flew! Two whacks—fore and aft, as Uncle Jeems used to say—split the hog; one whack, by a greasy feller with an everlasting chunk of sharpened iron, and the hog was quartered—grabbed and carried off to another block, and then a set of savagerous-lookin' chaps layed to and cut and skirted around;—hams and shoulders were going one way, sides and middlins another way; wall, I'm screwed if the hull room didn't 'pear to be full of flying pork—in hams, sides, scraps and greasy fellers—rippin' and a tearin'! Daown in another place they were saltin' and packin' away, like sin! Daown in the other place they were frying aout the lard—fillin' barrels, from a regular river of fat, coming aout of the everlastin' biggest bilers yeou ever did see, I vow! Now, I asked the feller if sich hurryin' a hog through a course of spraouts helped the pork any, and he said it didn't make any difference, he s'pected. He said they were not hurryin' then, but if I would come in, some day, when 'steam was up,' he'd show me quick work in the pork business—knock daown, drag aout, scrape, cut up, and have the hog in the barrel before he got through squealin'!

"Hello! Say!—'Squire, gone?"

The old gent was—gone; the last brick hit him!



German Caution

Some ten years since, an old Dutchman purchased in the vicinity of Brooklyn, a snug little farm for nine thousand dollars. Last week, a lot of land speculators called on him to "buy him out." On asking his price, he said he would take "sixty tousand dollars—no less."

"And how much may remain on bond and mortgage?"

"Nine tousand dollars."

"And why not more," replied the would-be purchasers.

"Because der tam place ain't worth any more."

Ain't that Dutch.



Ben. McConachy's Great Dog Sell.

A great many dogmas have been written, and may continue to be written, on dogs. Confessing, once, to a dogmatical regard for dogs, we "went in" for the canine race, with a zeal we have bravely outgrown; and we live to wonder how men—to say nothing of spinsters of an uncertain age—can heap money and affections upon these four-legged brutes, whose sole utility is to doze in the corner or kennel, terrify stray children, annoy horsemen, and keep wholesome meat from the stomachs of many a poor, starving beggar at your back gate. There is no use for dogs in the city, and precious little use for them any where else; and as Boz says of oysters—you always find a preponderance of dogs where you find the most poor people. Philadelphia's the place for dogs; in the suburbs, especially after night, if you escape from the onslaught of the rowdies, you will find the dogs a still greater and more atrocious nuisance. No rowdy, or gentleman at large, in the Quaker City, feels finished, without a lean, lank, hollow dog trotting along at their heels; while the butchers and horse-dealers revel in a profusion of mastiffs and dastardly curs, perfectly astounding—to us. This brings us to a short and rather pithy story of a dog sell.

Some years ago, a knot of men about town, gentlemen highly "posted up" on dogs, and who could talk hoss and dog equal to a Lord Bentick, or Hiram Woodruff, or "Acorn," or Col. Bill Porter, of the "Spirit," were congregated in a famous resort, a place known as Hollahan's. A dog-fight that afternoon, under the "Linden trees," in front of the "State House," gave rise to a spirited debate upon the result of the battle, and the respective merits of the two dogs. Words waxed warm, and the disputants grew boisterously eloquent upon dogs of high and low degree,—dogs they had read of, and dogs they had seen; and, in fact, we much doubt, if ever before or since—this side of "Seven Dials" or St. Giles', there was a more thorough and animated discussion, on dogs, witnessed.

An old and rusty codger, one whose outward bruises might have led a disciple of Paley to imagine they had caused a secret enjoyment within, sat back in the nearest corner, towards the stove, a most attentive auditor to the thrilling debate. Between his outspread feet, a dog was coiled up, the only indifferent individual present, apparently unconcerned upon the subject.

"Look here," says the old codger, tossing one leg over t'other, and taking an easy and convenient attitude of observation; "look here, boys, you're talkin' about dogs!"

"Dogs?" says one of the most prominent speakers.

"Dogs," echoes the old one.

"Why, yes, daddy, we are talking about dogs."

"What do you know about dogs?" says a full-blown Jakey, looking sharply at the old fellow.

"Know about dogs?"

"A' yes-s," says Jakey. "I bet dis five dollars, ole feller, you don't know a Spaniel from a butcher's cur!"

"Well," responds the old one, transposing his legs, "may be I don't, but it's my 'pinion you'd make a sorry fiste at best, if you had tail and ears a little longer!"

This sally amused all but the young gentleman who "run wid de machine," and attracted general attention towards the old man, in whose eyes and wrinkles lurked a goodly share of mother wit and shrewdness. Jakey backing down, another of the by-standers put in.

"Poppy, I expect you know what a good dog is?"

"I reckon, boys, I orter. But I'm plaguy dry listening to your dog talk—confounded dry!"

"What'll you drink, daddy?" said half a dozen of the dog fanciers, thinking to wet the old man's whistle to get some fun out of him. "What'll you drink?—come up, daddy."

"Sperrets, boys, good old sperrets," and the old codger drank; then giving his lips a wipe with the back of his hand, and drawing out a long, deep "ah-h-h-h!" he again took his seat, observing, as he partially aroused his ugly and cross-grained mongrel—

"Here's a dog, boys."

"That your dog, dad?" asked several.

"That's my dog, boys. He is a dog."

"Ain't he, tho'?" jocularly responded the dog men.

"What breed, daddy, do you call that dog of yours?" asked one.

"Breed? He ain't any breed, he ain't. Stand up, Barney, (jerking up the sneaking-looking thing.) He's no breed, boys; look at him—see his tushes; growl, Barney, growl!—Ain't them tushes, boys? He's no breed, boys; he's original stock!"

"Well, so I was going to say," says one.

"That dog," says another, "must be valuable."

"Waluable?" re-echoes the old man; "he is all that, boys; I wouldn't sell him; but, boys, I'm dry, dry as a powder horn—so much talkin' makes one dry."

"Well, come up, poppy; what'll you take?" said the boys.

"Sperrets, boys; good old sperrets. I do like good sperrets, boys, and that sperrets, Mister (to the ruffled-bosomed bar-keeper), o' your'n is like my dog—can't be beat!"

"Well, daddy," continued the dog men, "where'd you get your dog?"

"That dog," said the old fellow, again giving his mouth a back-hander, and his "ah-h-h!" accompaniment; "well, I'll tell you, boys, all about it."

"Do, poppy, that's right; now, tell us all about it," they cried.

"Well, boys, 'd any you know Ben. McConachy, out here at the Risin' Sun Tavern?"

"We've heard of him, daddy—go on," says they.

"Well, I worked for Ben. McConachy, one winter; he was a pizen mean man, but his wife—wasn't she mean? Why, boys, she'd spread all the bread with butter afore we sat down to breakfast; she'd begin with a quarter pound of butter, and when she'd got through, she had twice as much left."

"But how about the dog, daddy? Come, tell us about your dog."

"Well, yes, I'll tell you, boys. You see, Ben. McConachy owned this dog; set up, Barney—look at his ears, boys—great, ain't they? Well, Ben's wife was mean—meaner than pizen. She hated this dog; she hated any thing that et; she considered any body, except her and her daughter (a pizen ugly gal), that et three pieces of bread and two cups of coffee at a meal, awful!"

"Blow the old woman; tell us about the dog, poppy," said they.

"Now, I'm coming to the pint—but, Lord! boys, I never was so dry in my life. I am dry—plaguy dry," said the old one.

"Well, daddy, step up and take something; come," said the dog men; "now let her slide. How about the dog?"

"Ah-h-h-h! that's great sperrets, boys. Mister (to the bar-keeper), I don't find such sperrets as that often. Well, boys, as you're anxious to hear about the dog, I'll tell you all about him. You see, the old woman and Ben. was allers spatten 'bout one thing or t'other, and 'specially about this dog. So one day Ben. McConachy hears a feller wanted to buy a good dog, down to the drove yard, and he takes Barney—stand up, Barney—see that, boys; how quick he minds! Great dog, he is. Well, Ben. takes Barney, and down he goes to the drove yard. He met the feller; the feller looked at the dog; he saw Barney was a dog—he looked at him, asked how old he was; if that was all the dog Ben. owned, and he seemed to like the dog—but, boys, I'm gittin' dry—rotted dry—"

"Go on, tell us all about the dog, then we'll drink," says the boys.

"'Well,' says Ben. McConachy to the feller, 'now, make us an offer for him.' Now, what do you suppose, boys, that feller's first offer was?"

The boys couldn't guess it; they guessed and guessed; some one price, some another, all the way from five to fifty dollars—the old fellow continuing to say "No," until they gave it up.

"Well, boys, I'll tell you—that feller, after looking and looking at Ben. McConachy's dog, tail to snout, half an hour—didn't offer a red cent for him! Ben. come home in disgust and give the dog to me—there he is. Now, boys, we'll have that sperrets."

But on looking around, the boys had cut the pit—mizzled!



The Perils of Wealth

Money is admitted to be—there is no earthly use of dodging the fact—the lever of the whole world, by which it and its multifarious cargo of men and matters, mountains and mole hills, wit, wisdom, weal, woe, warfare and women, are kept in motion, in season and out of season. It is the arbiter of our fates, our health, happiness, life and death. Where it makes one man a happy Christian, it makes ten thousand miserable devils. It is no use to argufy the matter, for money is the "root of all evil," more or less, and—as Patricus Hibernicus is supposed to have said of a single feather he reposed on—if a dollar gives some men so much uneasiness, what must a million do? Money has formed the basis of many a long and short story, and we only wish that they were all imbued, as our present story is, with—more irresistible mirth than misery. Lend us your ears.

Not long ago, one of our present well-known—or ought to be, for he is a man of parts—business men of Boston, resided and carried on a small "trade and dicker" in the city of Portland. By frugal care and small profits, he had managed to save up some six hundred dollars, all in halves, finding himself in possession of this vast sum of hard cash, he began to conceive a rather insignificant notion of small cities; and he concluded that Portland was hardly big enough for a man of his pecuniary heft! In short, he began to feel the importance of his position in the world of finance, and conceived the idea that it would be a sheer waste of time and energy to stay in Portland, while with his capital, he could go to Boston, and spread himself among the millionaires and hundred thousand dollar men!

"Yes," said B——, "I'll go to Boston; I'd be a fool to stay here any longer; I'll leave for bigger timber. But what will I do with my money? How will I invest it? Hadn't I better go and take a look around, before I conclude to move? My wife don't know I've got this money," he continued, as he mused over matters one evening, in his sanctum; "I'll not tell her of it yet, but say I'm just going to Boston to see how business is there in my line; and my money I'll put in an old cigar box, and—"

* * * * *

B—— was all ready with his valise and umbrella in his hand. His "good-bye" and all that, to his wife, was uttered, and for the tenth time he charged his better half to be careful of the fire, (he occupied a frame house,) see that the doors were all locked at night, and "be sure and fasten the cellar doors."

B—— had got out on to the pavement, with no time to spare to reach the cars in season; yet he halted—ran back—opened the door, and in evident concern, bawled out to his wife—

"Caddie!"

"Well?" she answered.

"Be sure to fasten the alley gate!"

"Ye-e-e-e-s!" responded the wife, from the interior of the house.

"And whatever you do, don't forget them cellar doors, Caddie!"

"Ye-e-e-e-s!" she repeated, and away went B——, lickety split, for the Boston train.

After a general and miscellaneous survey of modern Athens, B—— found an opening—a good one—to go into business, as he desired, upon a liberal scale; but he found vent for the explosion of one very hallucinating idea—his six hundred dollars, as a cash capital, was a most infinitesimal circumstance, a mere "flea bite;" would do very well for an amateur in the cake and candy, pea-nut or vegetable business, but was hardly sufficient to create a sensation among the monied folks of Milk street, or "bulls" and "bears" on 'change. However, this realization was more than counter-balanced by another fact—"confidence" was a largely developed bump on the business head of Boston, and if a man merely lacked "means," yet possessed an abundance of good business qualifications—spirit, energy, talent and tact—they were bound to see him through! In short, B——, the great Portland capitalist, found things about right, and in good time, and in the best of spirits, started for home, determining, in his own mind, to give his wife a most pleasant surprise, in apprizing her of the fact that she was not only the wife of a man with six hundred silver dollars, and about to move his institution—but the better half of a gentleman on the verge of a new campaign as a Boston business man.

"Lord! how Caroline's eyes will snap!" said B——; "how she'll go in; for she's had a great desire to live in Boston these five years, but thinks I'm in debt, and don't begin to believe I've got them six hundred all hid away down——. But I'll surprise her!"

B—— had hardly turned his corner and got sight of his house, with his mind fairly sizzling with the pent-up joyful tidings and grand surprise in store for Mrs. B., when a sudden change came over the spirit of his dream! As he gazed over the fence, by the now dim twilight of fading day, he thought—yes, he did see fresh earthy loose stones, barrels of lime, mortar, and an ominous display of other building and repairing materials, strewn in the rear of his domicil! The cellar doors—those wings of the subterranean recesses of his house—which he had cautioned, earnestly cautioned, the "wife of his bussim" to close, carefully and securely, were sprawling open, and indeed, the outside of his abode looked quite dreary and haunted.

"My dear Caroline!" exclaimed B——, rushing into the rear door of his domestic establishment, to the no small surprise of Mrs. B., who gave a premature—

"Oh dear! how you frightened me, Fred! Got home?"

"Home? yes! don't you see I have. But, Carrie, didn't I earnestly beg of you to keep those doors—cellar doors—shut? fastened?"

"Why, how you talk! Bless me! Keep the cellar shut? Why, there's nothing in the cellar."

"Nothing in the cellar?" fairly howls B——.

"Nothing? Of course there is not," quietly responded the wife; "there is nothing in the cellar; day before yesterday, our drain and Mrs. A.'s drain got choked up; she went to the landlord about it; he sent some men, they examined the drain, and came back to-day with their tools and things, and went down the cellar."

"Down the cellar?" gasped B——, quite tragically.

"Down the cellar!" slowly repeated Mrs. B.

"Give me a light—quick, give me a light, Caroline!"

"Why, don't be a fool. I brought up all the things, the potatoes, the meat, the squashes."

"P-o-o-h! blow the meat and squashes! Give me a light!" and with a genuine melo-drama rush, B—— seized the lamp from his wife's hand, and down the cellar stairs he went, four steps at a lick. In a moment was heard—

"O-o-o-h! I'm ruined!"

With a full-fledged scream, Mrs. B. dashed pell-mell down the stairs, to her husband. He had dropped the lamp—all was dark as a coal mine.

"Fred—Frederick! oh! where are you? What have you done?" cried his wife, in intense agony and doubt.

"Done? Oh! I'm done! yes, done now!" he heavily sighed.

"Done what? how? Tell me, Fred, are you hurt?"

"What on airth's the matter, thar? Are you committing murder on one another?" came a voice from above stairs.

"Is that you, Mrs. A.?" asked Mrs. B. to the last speaker.

"Yes, my dear; here's a dozen neighbors; don't get skeert. Is thare robbers in yer house? What on airth is going on?"

This brought B—— to his proper reckoning. He ordered his wife to "go up," and he followed, and upon reaching the room, he found quite a gathering of the neighbors. He was as white as a white-washed wall, and the neighbors staring at him as though he was a wild Indian, or a chained mad dog. Importuned from all sides to unravel the mystery, B—— informed them that he had merely gone down cellar to see what the masons, &c., had been doing—dropped his lamp—his wife screamed—and that was all about it! The wife said nothing, and the neighbors shook their incredulous heads, and went home; which, no sooner had they gone, than B—— seized his hat and cut stick for the office of a cunning, far-seeing limb of the law, leaving Mrs. B. in a state of mental agitation better imagined than described. B—— stated his case—he had buried six hundred dollars in a box under the lee of the cellar-wall, and gone to Boston on business, and as if no other time would suit, a parcel of drain-cleaners, and masons, and laborers, must come and go right there and then to dig—get the six hundred dollars and clear.

After a long chase, law and bother, B—— recovered half his money—packed up and came to Boston.—There's a case for you! Beware of money!



Nursing a Legacy.

Waiting for dead men's shoes is a slow and not very sure business; sometimes it pays and sometimes it don't. I know a genius who lost by it, and his case will bear repeating, for there is both morality and fun in it.

Lev Smith, a native of "the Eastern shore" of Maryland, and a resident of a small town in the lower part of Delaware, began life on a very limited capital, and because of a natural disposition indigenous to the climate and customs of his native place—general apathy and unmitigated patience peculiar to people raised on fish and Johnny-cake, amid the stunted pine swamps and sand-hills of that Lord-forsaken country—Lev never increased it. Lev had an uncle, an old bachelor, without "chick or child," and was reported to be pretty well off. Old man Gunter was proverbially mean, and as usual, heartily despised by one half of the people who knew him. He had a small estate, had lived long, and by his close-fisted manner of life, it was believed that Gunter had laid by a pretty considerable pile of the root of all evil, for something or somebody; and one day Lev Smith, the nephew, came to the conclusion that as the old man was getting quite shaky and must soon resign his interests in all worldly gear, he would volunteer to console the declining years of his dear old uncle, by his own pleasant company and encouragement, and the old man very gladly accepted the proposals of Lev, to cut wood, dig, scratch and putter around his worn out and dilapidated farm. Uncle Gunter had but two negroes; through starvation and long service he had worn them about out; he had little or no "stock" upon his farm, quite as scant an assortment of utensils, few fences, and in fact, to any actively disposed individual, the general appearance and state of affairs about old Gunter's place would have given the double-breasted blues. But Lev Smith had come to loaf and lounge, and not to display any very active or patriotic evolutions, so he was not so much disheartened by his uncle's dilapidated farm, as he was annoyed by the beggarly way the old man lived, and the assiduous desire he seemed to manifest for Lev to be stirring around, gathering chips, patching fences, cutting brush; from morn till night, he and the two superannuated cuffies; and the old man barely raising enough to keep soul and body of the party together.

At first, the job he had undertaken proved almost too much for Lev Smith's constitution, but the great object in view consoled him, and the more he saw of the old man's meanness, the more and more he took it for granted that his uncle had necessarily hoarded up treasure; but, after three years' drudgery, Lev's courage was on the point of breaking down; the only stay left seemed the fact that now he had served so long a time, so patiently and lovingly, and the old man apparently upon his very last legs—it seemed a ruthless waste of his golden dreams to give out, so he made up his mind to—wait a little longer. Another year rolled on; Uncle Gunter got indeed low, and the lower he got the more assiduous got nephew Smith, and even the neighbors wondered how a young man could stick on, and put up with such a miserly, mean, selfish and penurious old curmudgeon as old Joe Gunter. Gunter himself was apprized of the great indulgence and wonderful patience of his nephew, and not unfrequently said, in a groaning voice:

"Ah, my dear Levi, you're a good boy; I wish to the Lord it was in your poor, miserable, wretched old uncle's distressed power to—"

"Never mind, never mind, Uncle Joe," Lev would most deceitfully respond; "I ask nothing for myself; what I do, I do willingly!"

"I know, I know you do, poor boy, but your poor, old, miserable, wretched uncle don't deserve it."

"Don't mind that, dear uncle," says Lev. "It's my duty, and I'll do it."

"Good boy, good boy; your poor, old, miserable uncle will be grateful—we'll see."

"I know that—I feel sure he will, dear Uncle Joe—and that's enough, all I ask."

"And if he don't—poor, miserable old creature,—if he don't pay you, the Lord will, Levi!"

"And that will be all that's needed, Uncle Joe," says the humbugging nephew. And so they went, Lev not only waiting on the old man with the tender and faithful care of a good Samaritan, but out of his own slender resources ministering to the old man's especial comfort in many ways and matters which Uncle Joe would have seen him hanged and quartered before he would in a like manner done likewise. But the end came—the old fellow held on toughly; he never died until Lev's patience, hope and slender income were quite threadbare; so he at last went off the handle—Lev buried him and mourned the dispensation in true Kilkenny fashion.

Lev Smith now awaited the settlement of Uncle Gunter's affairs in grief and solicitude. Another party also awaited the upshot of the matter, with due solemnity and expectation, and that party was Polly Williams, Lev's "intended," and her poor and miserly dad and marm, who knew Lev Smith, as they said, was a lazy, lolloping sort of a feller, but sure to get all that his poor, miserable uncle was worth in the world, and therefore, with more craft and diligence, if possible, than Lev practised, the Williamses set Polly's cap for Lev, and who, in turn, was not unmindful of the fact that Williams "had something" too, as well as his two children, Polly and Peter. Things seemed indeed bright and propitious on all sides. The day came; Lev was on hand at Squire Cornelius's, to hear the will read, and the estate of the deceased settled.

As usual in such cases in the country, quite a number of the neighbors were on hand—old Williams, of course.

"He was a queer old mortal," began the Squire.

"But a good man," sobbed Lev Smith, drawing out his bandanna, and smothering his sharp nose in it. "A good man, 'Squire."

"God's his judge," responded the Squire, and a number of the neighbors shook their head and stroked their beards, as if to say amen.

"Joseph Gunter mout have been a good man and he mout not," continued the Squire; "some thinks he was not; I only say he was a queer old mortal, and here's his will. Last will and testament of Joseph Gunter, &c., &c.," continued the Squire.

"Poor, dear old man," sobbed Lev. "Poor dear old man!"

"Being without wife or children," continued the 'Squire.

"O, dear! poor, dear old man, how I shall miss him in this world of sorrow and sin," sobs Lev, while old Williams bit his skinny lips, and the neighbors again stroked their beards.

"To comfort my declining years—"

"Poor, dear old man, he was to be pitied; I did all I could do," groaned the disconsolate Lev, "but I didn't do half enough."

"Passing coldly and cheerless through the world—" continued the 'Squire.

"Yes, he did, poor old man; O, dear!" says Lev.

"Cared for by none, hated and shunned by all (Lev looked vacantly over his handkerchief, at the Squire), I have made up my mind (Lev all attention) that no mortal shall benefit by me; I have therefore mortgaged and sold (Lev's eyes spreading) everything I had of a dollar's value in the world, and buried the money in the earth where none but the devil himself can find it!"

There was a general snicker and stare—all eyes on Lev, his face as blank as a sham cartridge, while old Williams's countenance fell into a concatenation of grimaces and wrinkles—language fails to describe!

"But here's a codicil," says the 'Squire, re-adjusting his glasses. "Knowing my nephew, Levi Smith, expects something (Lev brightens up, old Williams grins!)—he has hung around me for a long time, expecting it (Lev's jaw falls), I do hereby freely forgive him his six years boarding and lodging, and, furthermore, make him a present of my two old negroes, Ben and Dinah."

"The—the—the—cussed old screw," bawls old Williams.

"The infernal, double and twisted, mean, contemptible, miserable old scoundrel!" cries poor Lev, foaming with virtuous indignation, and swinging his doubled up fists.

"And you—you—you cussed, do-less, good for nothing, hypocritical skunk, you," yells old Williams, shaking his bony fingers in poor Lev's face, the neighbors grinning from ear to ear, "to humbug me, my wife, my Polly, in this yer way. Now clear yourself—take them old niggers, don't leave 'em here for the crows to eat—clear yourself!"

Lev Smith sneaks off like a kill-sheep dog, leaving old Ben and Dinah to the tender mercies of a quite miserable and equally wretched neighborhood. Polly Williams didn't "take on" much about the matter, but in the course of a few weeks took another venture in love's lottery, and—was married. Poor Lev Smith returned to the scenes of his childhood, a wiser and a poorer man.



The Troubles of a Mover.

"Mr. Flash in?"

"Mr. Flash? Don't know any such person, my son."

"Why, he lives here!" continued the boy.

"Guess not, my son; I live here."

"Well, this is the house, for I brought the things here."

"What things?" says our friend, Flannigan.

"Why, the door mat, the brooms, buckets and brushes," says little breeches.

Flannigan looks vacantly at his own door mat, for a minute, then says he—

"Come in my man, I'll see if any such articles have come here, for us."

The boy walks into the hall, amid the barricades of yet unplaced household effects—for Flannigan had just moved in—and Flannigan calls for Mrs. F. The lady appears and denies all knowledge of any such purchases, or reception of buckets, brooms, and little breeches clears out.

In the course of an hour, a violent jerk at the bell announces another customer. Flannigan being at work in the parlor, answers the call; he opens the door, and there stands "a greasy citizen."

"Goo' mornin'. Mr. Flash in?"

"Mr. Flash? I don't know him, sir."

"You don't?" says the "greasy citizen." "He lives here, got this bill agin him, thirty-four dollars, ten cents, per-visions."

"I live here, sir; my name's Flannigan, I don't know you, or owe you, of course!"

"Well, that's a pooty spot o' work, any how;" growls our greasy citizen, crumpling up his bill. "Where's Flash?"

"I can't possibly say," says Flannigan.

"You can't?"

"Certainly not."

"Don't know where he's gone to?" growls the butcher.

"No more than the man in the moon!"

"Well, he ain't goin' to dodge me, in no sich a way," says the butcher. "I'll find him, if it costs me a bullock, you may tell him so!—for me!" growls the butcher.

"Tell him yourself, sir; I've nothing to do with the fellow, don't know him from Adam, as I've already told you," says Flannigan, closing the door—the "greasy citizen" walking down the steps muttering thoughts that breathe and words that burn!

Flannigan had just elevated himself upon the top of the centre table, to hang up Mrs. F.'s portrait upon the parlor wall, when another ring was heard of the bell. He called to his little daughter to open the door and see what was wanted.

"Is your fadder in, ah?"

"Yes, sir, I'll call him," says the child, but before she could reach the parlor, a burly Dutch baker marches in.

"Goot mornin', I bro't de pills in."

"Pills?" says Flannigan.

"Yaw, for de prets," continues the baker; "nine tollars foof'ey cents. I vos heert you was movin', so I tink maybees you was run away."

"Mistake, sir, I don't owe you a cent; never bought bread of you!"

"Vaw's! Tonner a' blitzen!—don't owes me!"

"Not a cent!" says Flannigan, standing—hammer in hand, upon the top of the table.

"Vaw's! you goin' thrun away and sheet me, ah?"

"Look here, my friend, you are under a mistake. I've just moved in here, my name's Flannigan, you never saw me before, and of course I never dealt with you!—don't you see?"

"Tonner a' blitzen!" cries the enraged baker, "I see vat you vant, to sheet me out mine preet, you raskills—I go fetch the con-stabl's, de shudge, de sher'ffs, and I have mine mon-ney in mine hands!" and off rushes the enraged man of dough, upsetting the various small articles piled up on the bureau in the hall—by wanging to the door.

Poor Flannigan felt quite "put out;" he came very near dashing his hammer at the Dutchman's head, but hoping there was an end to the annoyances he kept at work, until another ring of the bell announced another call. The Irish girl went to the door; Flannigan listens—

"Mr. Flash in?"

"Yees!" says Biddy, supposing Flash and Flannigan was the same in Dutch. "Would yees come in, sir," and in comes the young man.

"Good morning, sir," quoth he; "I've called as you requested sir, with the bill of that china set, &c."

"Mistake, sir—I've bought no china set, lately," says Flannigan.

"Isn't your name Flash, sir!"

"No, sir, my name's Flannigan. I've just moved here."

"Indeed," says the clerk. "Well, sir, where has Flash gone to, do you know."

"Gone to be hanged! I trust, for I've been bothered all this morning by persons that scoundrel appears to owe. He moved out of here, day before yesterday; I took his unexpired term of the lease of this dwelling, having noticed it advertised, gave the fellow a bonus for his lease, and he cleared for California, I believe."

This concise statement appeared to satisfy the clerk that his "firm" was done, and the young man and his bill stepped out. Another ring, and Flannigan opens the door; two men wanted to see Mr. Flash; he had been buying some tin-ware of one, and the other he owed for putting up a fire range in the building, and which range and accoutrements poor Flannigan had bought for twenty-five dollars, cash down! These gentlemen felt very vindictive, of course, and hinted awful strong that Flannigan was privy to Flash's movements; and a great deal more, until Flannigan losing his patience, and then his temper, ordered the men to vamose!—they did, giving poor Flannigan a "good blessing" as they walked away!

The family was about to sit down to a "made-up dinner" in the back parlor, when the bell rang; the Irish girl answered the call, and returned with a bill of sundry groceries, handed in by a man at the door.

"Tell him Mr. Flash has gone—left—don't know him, and don't want to know him, or have any thing to do with him or his bill!"

The girl carried back the bill; presently Flannigan hears a muss in the hall, he gets up and goes out; there was Biddy and the grocer's man in a high dispute. Biddy—"true to her instinct," had made a bull of her message by telling the man her master didn't know him; go to the divil wid his bill! Flannigan managed to pacify the man, and give him to understand that Mr. Flash was gone to parts unknown, and—the grocer, in common with bakers, butchers, tinners and china dealers—were done!

But now came the tug of war; two "colored ladies" made their appearance, for a small bill of seven dollars, for washing and ironing the dickeys and fine linen of the Flashes.

"An' de fac am," says the one, "we's bound to hab de money, shuah!"

It did not seem to take when Flannigan informed his colored friends that they were surely done, as their debtor had "cut his lucky" and gone!

The darkies felt inclined to be sassy, and Flannigan closed the door, ordering them to create a vacancy by clearing out, and just as he closed the door, ring goes the bell!

"Be gor," says a brawny "adopted citizen," planting his brogan upon the sill, as Flannigan opened the door—"I've come wid me coz-zin to git her wages, ye's owin' her!"

"Me? Owe you?" cries poor Flannigan.

"Igh!" says Paddy, trying to push his way into the hall.

"Stand back, you scoundrel!" cries Flannigan.

"Scoun-thril!" roars the outraged "adopted citizen."

"Stand back, you infernal ruffian!" exclaims Flannigan, as Paddy makes a rush to grab him.

"Give me me coz-zin's wages, ye—ye—" but here his oration drew towards a close, for Flannigan, no longer able to recognise virtue in forbearance, opened the door and planting his own huge fist between the ogle-factories of Paddy, knocked him as stiff as a bull beef! Falling, Paddy carried away his red-faced burly coz-zin, and the twain tumbling upon the two negro women who were still at the bottom of the steps, dilating, to any number of lookers-on, upon the rascality of poor Flannigan in gouging them out of their washing bill, down went the white spirits and black, all in a lump.

Here was a row! A mob gathered; "the people in that house" were denounced in all manner of ways, the negroes screamed, the Irish roared, the Dutch baker came up with a police-man to arrest Flannigan for stealing his bread! And soon the butcher arrived with another officer to seize the goods of Flash, supposed to be in the house—ready to be taken away!

Such a double and twisted uproar in Dutch, Irish, Ethiopian and natural Yankee, was terrific!

Mrs. F. fainted, the children screamed, and poor Flannigan was carried to the police office to answer half a cord of "charges," and reached home near sundown, quite exhausted, and his wallet bled for "costs," fines, &c., some $20. Poor Flannigan moved again; the house had such a "bad name," he couldn't stay in it.



The Question Settled.

"Doctor" Gumbo, who "does business" somewhere along shore, met "Prof." White,—a gemman, whose complexion is four shades darker than the famed ace of spades,—a few evenings since, in front of the Blade office, and after the usual formalities of greeting, says the doctor—

"What you tink, sah, oh dat Lobes question, what dey's makin' sich a debbil ob a talk about in de papers?"

"Well," dignifiedly answered the professor of polish-on boots, "it's my 'ticular opinion, sah, dat dat Lopes got into de wrong pew, brudder Gumbo, when he went down to Cuber for his healf!"

"Pshaw! sah, I'se talkin' about de gwynna (guano) question, I is."

"Well, doctor," said the professor, "I'se not posted up on de goanna question, no how; but, when you comes to de Cuber, or de best mode ob applyin' de principle ob liquid blackin' to de rale fuss-rate calfskin, I'se dar!"

"O! oh!" grunts Gumbo; "professor, you'se great on de natural principles ob de chemical skyence, I see; but lord honey, I doos pity your ignorance on jography questions. So, take care ob yourself, ole nigger—yaw! yaw!" and they parted with the formality of two Websters, and half a dozen common-sized dignitaries of the nation thrown in.



How it's Done at the Astor House.

People often wonder how a man can manage to drink up his salary in liquor, provided it is sufficient to buy a gallon of the very best ardent every day in the year. How a fortune can be drank up, or drank down, by the possessor, is still a greater poser to the unsophisticated. Now, to be sure, a man who confines himself, in his potations, to fourpenny drinks of small beer, Columbian whiskey, or even that detestable stuff, by courtesy or custom called French brandy,—which, in fact, is generally aquafortis, corrosive sublimate, cochineal, logwood, and whiskey,—and don't happen to know too many drouthy cronies, may make a very long lane of it; but it's the easiest thing in the world to swallow a snug salary, income, mortgages, live stock, and real estate, when you know how it's done.

Managing a theatre, publishing a newspaper, or keeping trained dogs or trotting horses, don't hardly begin to phlebotomize purse and reputation, like drinking.

"Doctor," said a gay Southern blood, to a famed "tooth doctor," "look into my mouth."

"I can't see any thing there, sir," says the tooth puller.

"Can't? Well, that's deuced strange. Why, sir, look again; you see nothing!"

"Nothing, sir!"

"Why, sir," says the young planter, "it's most astonishing, for I've just finished swallowing—three hundred negroes and two cotton plantations!"

Four young bucks met, some years ago, in a fashionable drinking saloon in Cincinnati. It was one of the most elegant drinking establishments in that part of the country. The young chaps belonged over in Kentucky—daddies rich, and they didn't care a snap! says they, let's have a spree! The "sham" came in, and they went at it; giving that a fair trial, they took a turn at sherry, hock, and a sample of all the most expensive stuffs the proprietors had on hand. Getting fuddled, they got uproarious; they kicked over the tables and knocked down the waiters. The landlord, not exactly appreciating that sort of "going on," remonstrated, and was met by an array of pistols and knives. Mad and furious, the young chaps made a general onslaught on the people present, who "dug out" very quick, leaving the bacchanalians to their glory; whereupon, they fell to and fired their pistols into the mirrors, paintings, chandeliers, &c. Of course the watchmen came in, about the time the young gentlemen finished their youthful indiscretions, and after the usual battering and banging of the now almost inanimate bodies of the quartette, landed them in the calaboose. Next day they settled their bills, and it cost them about $2200! It was rather an expensive lesson, but it's altogether probable that they haven't forgotten a letter of it yet.

A small party of country merchants, traders, &c., were cruising around New York, one evening, seeing the lions, and their cicerone,—by the way, a "native" who knew what was what,—took them up Broadway, and as they passed the Astor House, says one of the strangers:

"Smith, what's this thunderin' big house?"

"O, ah, yes, this," says the cicerone, Smith, "this, boys, is a great tavern, fine place to get a drink."

"Well, be hooky, let's all go in."

In they all went; taking a private room or small side parlor, the country gents requested Smith to do the talking and order in the liquor. Smith called for a bill of fare, upon which are "invoiced" more "sorts" and harder named wines and liquors than could be committed to memory in a week.

"That's it," says Smith, marking a bill of fare, and handing it to the servant, "that's it—two bottles, bring 'em up."

Up came the wine; it was, of course, elegant. The country gents froze to it. They had never tasted such stuff before, in all their born days!

"Look a here, mister," says one of the "business men," "got eny more uv that wine?"

"O, yes, sir!" says the servant.

"Well, fetch it in."

"Two bottles, sir?"

"Two ganders! No, bring in six bottles!—I can go two on 'em myself," says the country gent.

The servant delivered his message at the bar, and after a few grimaces and whispering, the servant and one of the bar-keepers, or clerks, carried up the wine. Says the clerk, whispering to Smith, whom he slightly knew:

"Smith, do you know the price of this wine?"

"Certainly I do," says Smith; "here it's invoiced on the catalogue, ain't it?"

"O, very well," says the clerk, about to withdraw.

"Hold on!" says one of the merry country gents, "don't snake your handsome countenance off so quick; do yer want us to fork rite up fur these drinks?" hauling out his wallet.

"No, yer don't," says another, hauling out his change.

"My treat, if you please, boys," says the third, pulling out a handful of small change. "I asked the party in, an' I pay for what licker we drink—be thunder!"

In the midst of their enthusiasm, the clerk observed it was of no importance just then—the bill would be presented when they got through. This was satisfactory, and the party went on finishing their wine, smoking, &c.

"S'pose we have some rale sham-paigne, boys?" says one of the gents, beginning to feel his oats, some!

"Agreed!" says the rest. Two bottles of the best "sham" in "the tavern" were called for, and which the party drank with great gusto.

"Now," says one of them, "let's go to the the-ater, or some other place where there's a show goin' on. Here, you, mister,"—to the servant,—"go fetch in the landlord."

"The landlord, sur?" says Pat, the servant, in some doubts as to the meaning of the phrase.

"Ay, landlord—or that chap that was in here just now; tell him to fetch in the bill. Ah, here you are, old feller; well, what's the damages?" asks the gent, so ambitious of putting the party through, and hauling out a handful of keys, silver and coppers, to do it with.

"Eight bottles of that old flim-flam-di-rip-rap," pronouncing one of those fancy gamboge titles found upon an Astor House catalogue, "ninety-six dollars—"

"What?" gasped the country gent, gathering up his small change, that he had began to sort out on the table.

"And two bottles of 'Shreider,' and cigars—seven dollars," coolly continued the bar-clerk; "one hundred and three dollars."

"A hundred and three thunder—"

"A HUNDRED AND THREE DOLLARS!" cried the country gents, in one breath, all starting to their feet, and putting on their hats.

The clerk explained it, clear as mud; the trio "spudged up" the amount, looked very sober, and walked out.

"Come, boys," said Smith, "let's go to the theatre."

"Guess not," says "the boys." "B'lieve we'll go home for to-night, Mr. Smith." And they made for their lodgings.

If those country gents were asked, when they got home, any particulars about the "elephant," they'd probably hint something about getting a glimpse of him at the Astor House.



The Advertisement.

Sit down for a moment, we will not detain you long, our story will interest you, we are sure, for it is most commendable, brief, and—singularly true.

A poor widow, in the city of Philadelphia, was the mother of three pretty children, orphans of a ship-builder, who lost his life in the corvette Kensington, a naval vessel, built in Kensington for one of the South American republics, and launched in 1826. The South Americans being short of funds, the Kensington, after years of delay, was sold to the emperor of all the Russias, and sailed for Constradt in 1830. Some forty of the carpenters, who had built the vessel, went out in her; she had immense, but symmetrical spars—carried vast clouds of canvass—was caught off Cape Henlopen in a squall—her spars came thundering to the deck, and poor Glenn, the ship builder, was among the slain.

The widow was allowed but a brief time to mourn for the departed; pinching poverty was at her door; upon her own exertions now devolved the care and toil of rearing her three children. Cynthia, the eldest, was a pretty brunette, of thirteen; the neighbors thought Cynthia could "go out to work;" the next eldest, Martin, a fine, sturdy and intelligent boy, could go to a trade; and the youngest, Rosa, one of the most beautiful, blue-eyed, blonde little girls of seven years, poetical fancy ever realized, "the neighbors thought," ought to be given to somebody, to raise. The mother was but a feeble woman; it would be a task for her to obtain her own living, they thought; and so, kind, generous souls, with that peculiar readiness with which disinterested friends console or advise the unfortunate, "the neighbors" became very eloquent and argumentative. But though the mother's hands were weak, her heart was strong, and her love for her children still stronger.

It is rather a singular trait in the human character, it appears to us, that people possessing the ordinary attributes of sane Christians, should so readily advise others to attempt, or do, that from which they would instinctively recoil; the mass of Widow Glenn's advisers might have been far more serviceable to her, by contributing their mites towards preserving the unity of her little and precious family, than thus savagely advising its disbanding.

Newspapers, at this day, were far less numerous very expensive, and circulated to a very limited degree, indeed. But the widow took a paper, a family, weekly journal; and while casting her vacant eye over the columns, at the close of a Saturday eve, after a severe week's toil for the bread her little and precious ones had eaten, the widow's attention was called to an advertisement, as follows:

"A Housekeeper Wanted.—An elderly gentleman desires a middle-aged, pleasantly-disposed, tidy and industrious American woman, to take charge and conduct the domestic affairs of his household. A reasonable compensation allowed. Good reference required, the applicant to have no incumbrances. Apply at this office, for the address, &c."

The eager smile, that seemed to warm the wan features of the widow, as she glanced over the advertisement, was dimmed and darkened, as the shining river of summer is shadowed by the heavy passing cloud, when she came to the chilling words—the applicant to have no incumbrances.

"No incumbrances," moaned the widow, "shall none but God deign to smile or have mercy on the helpless orphans; are they to be feared, shunned, hated, because helpless? Must they perish—die with me alone—struggling against our woes, poverty, wretchedness? No! I know there is a God, he is good, powerful, merciful; he will turn the hearts of some towards the widow and the orphan; and though basilisk-like words warn me to hope not, I will apply—I will attempt to win attention, work, slave, toil, toil, toil, until my poor hands shall wear to the bone, and my eyes no longer do their office—if he will only have mercy, pity for my poor, poor orphans—God bless them!" and in melting tenderness and emotion, the poor woman dropped her face upon her lap and wept—her tears were the showers of hope, to the almost parched soil of her heart, and as the gentle dews of heaven fall to the earth, so fell the widow's tears in balmy freshness upon her visions of a brighter something—in the future.

It was yet early in the evening; her children slept; the poor woman put on her bonnet and shawl, and started at once for the office of the newspaper. The publisher was just closing his sanctum, but he gave the information the widow required, and favorably impressed with Mrs. Glenn's appearance and manner, the publisher, a quaker, interrogated her on various points of her present condition, prospects, &c.; and observed, that but for her children, he had no doubt of the widow's suiting the old man exactly.

"But thee must not be neglected, or discarded from honest industry, because of thy responsibilities, which God hath given thee," said the quaker. "If thy lad is stout of his age, and a good boy, I will provide for him; he may learn our business, and be off thy charge, and thee may be enabled to keep thy two female children about thee."

On the following Monday, the widow signified her intention of writing a few lines as an applicant for the situation of housekeeper, and afterwards to consult with the publisher in regard to her boy, Martin, and then bidding the courteous quaker farewell, she sought her humble domicil, with a much lighter heart than she had lately carried from her distressed and lonely home.

In an ancient part of the Quaker city, facing the broad and beautiful Delaware river, stood a venerable mansion; but few of this class now remain in Philadelphia, and the one of which we now speak, but recently passed away, in the great conflagration that visited the city in 1850. In this substantial and stately brick edifice, lived one of the wealthy and retired ship brokers of Quakerdom. He was very wealthy, very eccentric, very good-hearted, but passionate, plethoric, gouty, and seventy years of age. Mr. Job Carson had lived long and seen much; he had been so engrossed in clearing his fortune, that from twenty-five to forty, he had not bethought him of that almost indispensable appendage to a man's comfort in this world—a wife. He was the next ten years considering the matter over, and then, having built and furnished himself a costly mansion, which he peopled with servants, headed by a maiden sister as housekeeper, Job thought, upon the whole—to which his sister added her strong consent—that matrimony would greatly increase his cares, and perhaps add more noise and confusion to his household, than it might counterbalance or offset by probable comfort in "wedded happiness," so temptingly set forth to old bachelors.

"No," said Job, at fifty, "I'll not marry, not trade off my single blessedness yet; at least, there's time enough, there's women enough; I'm young, hale, hearty, in the prime of life; no, I'll not give up the ship to woman yet."

Another ten years rolled along, and the thing turned up in the retired merchant's mind again—he was now sixty, and one, at least, of the objections to his entering the wedded state, removed—for a man at sixty is scarcely too young to marry, surely.

"Ah, it's all up," quoth Job Carson. "I'm spoiled now. I've had my own way so long, I could not think of surrendering to petticoats, turning my house into a nursery, and turning my back on the joys, quiet and comforts of bachelorhood. No, no, Job Carson—matrimony be hanged. You'll none of it." And so ten years more passed—now age and luxury do their work.

"O, that infernal twinge in my toe. O, there it is again—hang the goat, it can't be gout. Dr. Bleedem swears I'm getting the gout. Blockhead—none of my kith or kin ever had such an infernal complaint. O, ah-h-h, that infernal window must be sand-bagged, given me this pain in the back, and—Banquo! Where the deuce is that nigger—Banquo-o-o!"

"Yis, massa, here I is," said a good-natured, fat, black and sleek-looking old darkey, poking his shining, grinning face into the old gentleman's study, sitting, playing or smoking room.

"Here you are? Where? You black sarpint, come here; go to Jackplane, the carpenter, and tell him to come here and make my sashes tight, d'ye hear?"

"Yis, massa, dem's 'em; I'se off."

"No, you ain't—come here, Banquo, you woolly son of Congo, you; go open my liquor case, bring the brandy and some cool water. There, now clear yourself."

"Yis, massa, I'se gone, dis time—"

"No, you ain't, come back; go to old Joe Winepipes, and tell him I send my compliments to him, and if he wants to continue that game of chess, let him come over this afternoon, d'ye hear?"

"Yis, massa, dem's 'em, I'se gone dis time—shuah!"

"Well, away with you."

Old Job Carson was yet a rugged looking old gentleman. He had survived nearly all his "blood, kith and kin;" his sister had paid the last debt of nature some months before, and in hopes of finding some one to fill her station, in his domestic concerns, his advertisement had appeared in the Weekly Bulletin.

"Ah, me, it's no use crying about spilt milk," sighed the old gent over his glass. "I suppose I've been a fool; out-lived everybody, everything useful to me. Made a fortune first, nobody to spend it last. Yes, yes," continued the old man, in a thoughtful strain, "old Job Carson will soon slip off the handle; 'poor old devil,' some bloodsucker may say, as he grabs Job's worldly effects, 'he's gone, had a hard scrabble to get together these things, and now, we'll pick his bones.' Well, let 'em, let 'em; serves me right; ought to have known it before, but blast and rot 'em, if they only enjoy the pillage as much as I did the struggles to keep it together, why, a—it will be about an even thing with us, after all."

"Yis, massa, here I is," chuckled Banquo, again putting his black bullet pate in at the door.

"You are, eh? Well, clear yourself—no, come back; go down to Oatmeal's store, and tell him to let old Mrs. Dougherty, and the old blind man, and the sailor's wife, and—and—the rest of them, have their groceries, again, this week—only another week, mind, for I'm not going to support the whole neighborhood any longer—tell him so."

"Yis, massa, I'se gone."

"Wait, come here, Banquo; well, never mind—clear out."

But Banquo returned in a moment, saying:

"Dar's a lady at the doo-ah, sah; says she wants to see you, sah, 'bout 'ticlar business, sah."

"Is, eh? Well, call her into the parlor, I'll be down—ah-h, that infernal twinge again, ah-h-h-h, ah-h! What a stupid ass a man is to hang around in this world until he's a nuisance to himself and every body else!" grunted old Job, as he groped his way down stairs, and into the parlor.

"Good morning, ma'am," said he, as he confronted the widow, who, in the utmost taste of simple neatness, had arranged her spare dress, to meet the umpire of her future fate.

Mrs. Glenn respectfully acknowledged the salutation, and at once opened her business to the bluff old man.

"Yes, yes; I'm a poor, unfortunate creature, ma'am; I'm nothing, nobody, any more. I want somebody to see that I'm not robbed, or poisoned, and that I may have a bed to lie upon, and a clean piece of linen to my back occasionally, and a—that's all I want, ma'am."

The widow feigned to hope she knew the duties of a housekeeper, and situated as she was, it was a labor of love to work—toil, for those misfortune had placed in her charge.

"Eh? what's that—haven't got incumbrances, have you, ma'am?"

"I have three children, sir," meekly said the widow.

"Three children?" gruffly responded the old gentleman; "ah, umph, what business have you, ma'am, with three children?"



The widow, not apparently able to answer such a poser, the old gentleman continued:

"Poor widows, poor people of any kind, have no business with incumbrances, ma'am; no excuse at all, ma'am, for 'em."

"So, alas!" said Mrs. Glenn, "I find the world too—too much inclined to reason; but I shall trust to the mercy and providence of the Lord, if denied the kind feelings of mortals."

"Ah, yes, yes, that's it, ma'am; it's all very fine, ma'am; but too many poor, foolish creatures get themselves in a scrape, then depend upon the Lord to help 'em out. This shifting the responsibility to the shoulders of the Lord isn't right. I don't wonder the Lord shuts his ears to half he's asked to do, ma'am."

"Well, sir, I thought I would call, though I feared my children would be an objection to—"

"Yes, yes,—I don't want incumbrances, ma'am."

"But I—I a—"—the widow's heart was too full for utterance; she moved towards the door. "Good morning, sir."

"Stop, come back, ma'am, sit down; it's a pity—you've no business, ma'am, as I said before, to have incumbrances, when you haven't got any visible means of support. Now, if you only had one, one incumbrance—and that you'd no business to have"—said the old gent, doggedly, tapping an antique tortoise-shell snuff box, and applying "the pungent grains of titillating dust," as Pope observes, to his proboscis, "if you had only one incumbrance—but you've got a house full, ma'am."

"No, sir, only three!" answered widow Glenn.

"Three, only three? God bless me, ma'am, I wouldn't be a poor woman with two—no, with one incumbrance at my petticoat tails—for the biggest ship and cargo old Steve Girard ever owned, ma'am."

"I might," meekly said the widow, "put my son with the printer, sir; he has offered to take my poor boy."

"Two girls and a boy?" inquiringly asked the old gent, applying the dust, and manipulating his box. "How old? Eldest thirteen, eh?—boy eleven, and the youngest seven, eh?" and working a traverse, or solving some problematic point, Job Carson stuck his hands under his morning gown, and strode over the floor; after a few evolutions of the kind, he stopped—fumbled in a drawer of a secretary, and placing a ten dollar note in the widow's hand, he said:

"There, ma'am; I don't know that I shall want you, but to-morrow morning, if you have time, from other and more important business, call in, bring your children with you; good morning, ma'am—Banquo!"

"Yis, sah; I'se heah."

"Show the lady out—good morning, ma'am, good morning."

"I like that woman's looks," said old Job, continuing his walk; "she's plain and tidy; she's industrious, I'll warrant; if she only hadn't that raft of incumbrances; what do these people have incumbrances for, anyway?—"

"Lady at the doo-ah, sah," said Banquo.

"Show her in. Good morning, ma'am; Banquo, a seat for the lady; yes, ma'am, I did; I want a housekeeper. I advertised for one. How many servants do I keep? Well, ma'am, I keep as many as I want. Have visitors? Of course I have. What and where are my rooms? Why, madam, I own the house, every brick and lath in it. I go to bed, and get up, and go round; come in and out, when I feel like it. What church do I worship in? I've assisted in building a number, own a half of one, and a third of several; but, ma'am, between you and I—I don't want to be rude to a lady, ma'am, but I do think, this examination ain't to my liking—you don't think the place would suit you, eh? Well, I think your ladyship wouldn't suit me, ma'am, so I'll bid your ladyship good morning," said old Job, bowing very obsequiously to the stiff-starched and acrimonious dame, who, returning the old gentleman's bow with the same "high pressure" order, seized her skirts in one hand, and agitating her fan with the other, she stepped out, or finikined along to the hall door, and as Banquo flew around, and put on the extras to let her ladyship out, she gave the darkey a pat on the head with her fan, and looking crab-apples at the poor negro, she rushed down the steps and disappeared.

"Tank you, ma'am; come again, eb you please—of'n!" said the pouting negro.

"Yes, sah; here's nudder lady, sah," says Banquo, ushering in a rather ruddy, jolly-looking and perfectly-at-home daughter of the "gim o' the sae." The old gentleman eyed her liberal proportions; consulting his snuff-box, he answered "yes" to the woman's inquiry, if he was the gintleman wanting the housekeeper.

"Did you read my advertisement, ma'am?"

"Me rade it? Not I, faix. Mr. Mullony, our landlord, was saying till us—"

"Are you married, too?"

"Married two? Do I look like a woman as would marry two? No, sur; I'm a dacent woman, sur; my name is Hannah Geaughey, Jimmy Geaughey's my husband, sur; he, poor man, wrought in the board-yard till he was sun sthruck, by manes of falling from a cuart, sur."

"Well, ma'am, that will do, I'm sorry for your husband—one dollar, there it is; you wouldn't suit me at all; good morning, ma'am. Banquo, show the good woman to the door."

"But, sur, I want the place!"

"I don't want you—good morning."

"Dis way, ma'am," said Banquo, marshalling the woman to the hall.

"Stand away, ye nager; it's your masther I'm spakin' wid."

"Go along, go along, woman, go, go, go!" roared the old gent.

"But, as I was saying, Mr. Mullony said—says he—who the divil you push'n, you black nager?" said the woman, grabbing Banquo's woolly top-knot.

"Dis way, ma'am," persevered Banquo, quartering towards the door.

"Mr. Mullony was sayin', sur—"

"Dis way, ma'am," continued the darkey, crowding Mrs. Geaughey, while his master was gesticulating furiously to keep on crowding her. Finally, Banquo vanquished the Irish woman, and received orders from his master to admit no more applicants—the place was filled.

That afternoon, old Captain Winepipes—a retired merchant and ship-master, an old bachelor, too, who was in the habit of exchanging visits with Job Carson, sipping brandy and water, talking over old times and playing chess—came to finish a litigated game, and Job and he discussed the matter of taking care of the widow and children of the dead ship-builder. At length, it was settled that, if the second interview with the widow, and an exhibition of her children, proved satisfactory to Job Carson, he should take them in; if found more than Job could attend to—

"Why a—I'll go you halves, Job," said Captain Winepipes.

Next day, Widow Glenn and her pretty children appeared at the door of Carson's mansion; and Banquo, full of pleasant anticipations, ushered them into the retired merchant's presence.

It was evident, at the first glance the old gentleman gave the group, that the battle was more than half won.

"Fine boy, that; come here, sir—eleven years of age, eh? Your name's Martin—Martin Glenn, eh? Well, Martin, my lad, you've got a big world before you—a fussing, fuming world, not worth finding out, not worth the powder that would blow it up. You've got to take your position in the ranks, too, mean and contemptible as they are; but you may make a good man; if the world don't benefit you, why a—you can benefit it; that's the way I've done—been obliged to do it, ain't sorry for it, neither," said the old man, with evident emotion.

"Your name is Cynthia, eh? And you are a fine grown girl for your age, surely. Cynthia, you'll soon be capable of 'keeping house,' too; you've got a world before you, too, my dear; a wicked, scandalous world; a world full of deceit and misery—look at your mother, look at me! Ah, well, it's all our own fault; yours, madam, for having these—these incumbrances, and mine, poor devil—for not having 'em. Cynthia, you're a fine girl; a good girl, I know. Ah, here's mamma's pet, I suppose; Rose Glenn, very pretty name, pretty girl, too, very pretty. Lips and cheeks like cherries, eyes brighter than Brazil diamonds. Ma'am, you've got great treasures here; a man must be a stupid ass to call these incumbrances. They are jewels of inestimable value. What's my filthy bank accounts, dollars and cents, houses, goods and chattels, that fire may destroy, and thieves steal—to these blessings that—that God has given the lone widow to strengthen her—cheer her in the dark path of life? God is great, generous, and just; I see it now, plainer than I ever did before. Banquo!"

"Yis'r, I'se here, massa."

"Go tell Counsellor Prime to call on me immediately; tell Captain Winepipes to come over—I want to see him. I'm going to make a fool of myself, I believe."

"Yes, sah, I'se gone; gorry, I guess dere's suffin gwoin to happen to dat lady and dem chil'ns—shuah!" said Banquo, rushing out of the house.

The fate of the ship-builder's family was fixed. Job Carson proposed—and the widow, of course, consented—that Martin Glenn should become the adopted son of the old gentleman, Job Carson; and that he should choose a trade or profession, which he should then, or later, learn, making the old gentleman's house as much his home as circumstances would permit; the two girls were to remain under the same roof with the mother, who was at once installed as housekeeper for the bluff and generous old gentleman.

Old Captain Winepipes insisted on a share in the settlement, to wit: that both girls should be educated at his expense, which was finally acceded to, adding, that in case he—Captain Joseph Winepipes—should live to see Rose Glenn a bride, he should provide for her wedding, and give her a dowry.

"Set that down in black and white, Mr. Prime," said Job, "and that I, Job Carson, do agree, should I live to see Cynthia Glenn a wife, to give her a comfortable start in the world—set that down, for I will do it, yes, I will," said the old gent, with an emphatic rap on his snuff-box.

* * * * *

Ten years passed away; Captain Winepipes has paid the debt of nature; he did not live to see Rose Glenn a wife; but, nevertheless, he left a clause in his will, that fully carried out his expressed intentions when Rose did marry, some two years after she arrived at the age of sweet seventeen. Martin Glenn Carson graduated in the printing office, and very recently filled one of the most important stations in the judiciary of Illinois, as well as a chivalrous part in the recent war with Mexico. Cynthia was wedded to a well known member of the Philadelphia bar, an event that Job Carson barely lived to see, and, as he agreed to, donated a sum, quite munificent, towards making things agreeable in the progress of her married life. Widow Glenn remained a faithful servant and friend to the old merchant, and, upon his death, she became heir to the family mansion, and means to keep it up at the usual bountiful rate. Large bequests were made in Job Carson's will, to charitable institutes, but the bulk of his fortune fell to his adopted son, Martin, who proved not unworthy of his good fortune. Banquo ended his days in the service of the widow, who had cause for and took pleasure in blessing the vehicle that conveyed to herself and orphans their rare good fortune, in guise of a NEWSPAPER ADVERTISEMENT.



Incidents in a Fortune-Hunter's Life.

We do not now recollect what philosopher it was who said, "it's no disgrace to be poor, but it's often confoundedly unhandy!" But, we have little or no sympathy for poor folks, who, ashamed of their poverty, make as many and tortuous writhings to escape its inconveniences, as though it was "against the law" to be poor. It is the cause of incalculable human misery, to seem what we are not; to appear beyond want—yea, even in affluence and comfort, when the belly is robbed to clothe the back—the inner man crucified to make the outside lie you through the world, or into—genteel "society." This, though abominable, is common, and leads to innumerable ups and downs, crime and fun, in this old world that we temporarily inhabit.