Chapter II: Part 2

The farmer saw no objection to the form proposed by the stranger, and therefore tore up the receipt he had written, and made a bill out in the form desired.

"Will you commence delivering to-day?" inquired the sportsman, who all at once began to manifest a marked degree of interest in the business.

"Yes," replied the farmer.

"How many wagons have you?"

"Two."

"As it is down hill all the way to the canal, they can easily take a hundred bushels each."

"Oh, yes."

"Very well. They can make two loads apiece to-day, and, by starting early, three loads apiece on Monday, which will transfer the whole thousand bushels to the canal. I will go down immediately and see that a boat is ready to commence loading. You can go to work at once."

By extra effort, the wheat was all delivered by Monday afternoon, and the balance of the purchase-money paid. As Mr. Ashburn was riding home, a neighbour who had noticed his wagons going past his house with wheat for the two days, overtook him.

"So I see, friend Ashburn, that, like me, you are content to take the first advance of the market, instead of running the risk of a decline for a further rise in prices. What did you get for your wheat?"

"I sold for ninety cents."

"Ninety cents!" exclaimed the neighbour. "Surely you didn't sell for that?"

"I certainly did. I tried to get ninety-two, but ninety was the highest offer I could obtain."

"Ninety cents! Why, what has come over you, Ashburn. Wheat is selling for a dollar and twenty cents. I've just sold five hundred bushels for that."

"Impossible!" ejaculated the farmer.

"Not at all impossible. Don't you know that by the last arrival from England have come accounts of a bad harvest, and that wheat has taken a sudden rise?"

"No, I don't know any such a thing," returned the astonished Ashburn.

"Well, it's so. Where is your newspaper?--Haven't you read it? I got mine on Friday evening, and saw the news. Early on Saturday morning I found two or three speculators ready to buy up all the wheat they could get at old prices; but they didn't make many operations. One fellow who pretended to be a fancy sportsman, thrust himself into my way, but, even if I had not know of a rise in the price of wheat, I should have suspected it as soon as I saw him, for I read, last week, of just such a looking chap as him having got ahead of some ignorant country farmers by buying up their produce, on a sudden rise of the market, at price much below its real value."

"Good day!" said Ashburn, suddenly applying his whip to the flank of his horse; and away dashed homeward at a full gallop.

The farmer never sat down to make a regular calculation of what he had lost by stopping his news paper; but it required no formality of pencil and paper to arrive at this. A difference of thirty cents on each bushel, made, for a thousand bushels, the important sum of three hundred dollars, and this fact his mind instantly saw.

By the next mail, he enclosed two dollars to the publishers of the "Post," and re-ordered the paper. He will, doubtless, think a good while, and retrench at a good many points, before he orders an other discontinuance.

HUNTING UP A TESTIMONIAL.

"DOCTOR," said a man with a thin, sallow countenance, pale lips, and leaden eyes, coming up to the counter of a drug-store in Baltimore, some ten years ago--"Doctor, I've been reading your advertisement about the 'UNIVERSAL RESTORER, AND BALSAM OF LIFE,' and if that Mr. John Johnson's testimony is to be relied on, it ought to suit my case, for, in describing his own sufferings, he has exactly described mine. But I've spent so much money in medicine, to no purpose, that I am tired of being humbugged: so, if you'll just tell me where I can find this Mr. Johnson, I'll give him a call. I'd like to know if he's a real flesh-and-blood man."

"You don't mean to insinuate that I'd forge a testimonial?" replied the man of medicine, with some slight show of indignation.

"Oh, no. I don't insinuate any thing at all, doctor," answered the pale-looking man. "But I'd like to see this Mr. John Johnson, and have a little talk with him."

"You can do that, if you'll take the trouble to call on him," said the doctor, in an off-hand way.

"Where can I find him?" asked the man.

"He lives a little way out of town; about three miles on the Fredrick turnpike."

"Ah, so far?"

"Yes. Go out until you come to the three-mile stone; then keep on to the first road, turning off to the right, along which you will go about a quarter of a mile, when you will see a brick house. Mr. Johnson lives there."

The thin, sallow-faced man bowed and retired. As he left the store, the doctor gave a low chuckle, and then said, half aloud--"I guess he won't try to find this Mr. John Johnson."

But he was mistaken. Three hours afterwards, the sick man entered the shop, and, sinking upon a chair with an expression of weariness, said, in a fretful tone--

"Well, doctor, I've been out where you said, but no Mr. John Johnson lives there."

"Mr. Johnson lives at the place to which I directed you," said the doctor, positively.

But the man shook his head.

"You went out the Fredrick road to the three-mile stone?"

"Yes."

"And turned off at the first road on the left-hand side?"

"You told me the _right_ hand side!" said the man.

"Oh, there's the mistake," replied the doctor, with the air of a man who had discovered a very material error, by which an important result was affected; "I told you to turn off to the _left_."

"I'm sure you said the right," persisted the man.

"Impossible!" returned the doctor, in a most confident tone of voice. "How could I have said the right-hand side when I knew it was the left? I know Mr. Johnson as well as I know my own brother, and have been at his house hundreds of times."

"I am almost sure you said the right!" persisted the man.

"Oh, no! You misunderstood me," most positively answered the doctor.

"Well, I must only try it again," said the man, languidly; "but shall have to defer the walk until to-morrow, for I'm completely worn down."

"You'd better try a bottle of the RESTORER," said the doctor with a benevolent smile. "I know it will just suit your case. Mr. Johnson looked worse than you do, when he commenced taking it, and three bottles made a well man of him."

And the doctor held up a bottle of the Restorer, with its handsome label, temptingly, before the eyes of the sick man, adding, as he did so--

"It is only fifty cents."

"I've been humbugged too often!" replied the suspicious patron of patent-medicine venders. "No; I'll see Mr. Johnson first."

"Well, did you see Mr. Johnson?" asked the doctor with a pleasant smile and confident air, as the testimonial-hunter entered his shop on the next day, about noon.

"No, I did not," was replied, a little impatiently. "Ah? How comes that? Did you follow the directions I gave?"

"Yes, to the very letter."

"Then you must have found Mr. Johnson."

"But I tell you, I didn't."

"It's very strange! I can't understand it. You turned off at the first road to the left, after passing the third milestone?"

"I did."

"Two tall poplars stood at the gate which opened from the turnpike?"

"What gate?"

"The gate opening into the lane leading to Mr. Johnson's house."

"I didn't turn of at any gate," said the man. "I kept on, as you directed, to the first road that led off from the turnpike. You didn't mention any thing about a gate."

"I didn't suppose it necessary," replied the doctor, with a show of impatience. "A road is a road, whether you enter it by a gate or in any other manner. Roads leading to gentlemen's country-seats are not usually left open for every sort of ingress and egress. I don't wonder that you were unable to find Mr. Johnson."

"I wish you'd give me a more particular direction," said the invalid. "I'm nearly dead now with fatigue; I'll try once more to find this man, and if I don't turn him up, I'll let the matter drop. I don't believe your medicine will do me much good, anyhow."

"I'm sure it will help you," replied the doctor. "I can tell from your very countenance that it is what you want. Hundreds affected as you are have been restored to health. Better take a bottle."

"I want to see this Mr. Johnson first," persisted the sick man.

"Get a carriage, then. This walking in the hot sun is too much for you."

"Can't afford to ride in carriages. Have spent all my money in doctor-stuffs. Oh, dear! Well! You say this man lives just beyond the three-mile stone, at the first road leading off to the left?"

"Yes."

"Two poplars stand at the gate?"

"Yes."

"I ought to find that," said the man.

"You can find it, if you try," returned the doctor.

The man started off again.

"Plague on the persevering fellow!" muttered the man of drugs, as soon as the invalid retired.

"I wish I'd sent him six miles, instead of three."

The day wore on, but the testimonial-hunter did not reappear. Early on the next morning, however, his pale, thin face and emaciated brows were visible in the shop of the quack-doctor.

"Ah! good morning! good morning!" cried the latter, with one of the most assured smiles in the world. "You found Mr. Johnson, and pleasant of course?"

"Confound you, and Mr. Johnson, too! No!" replied the invalid impatiently.

The doctor was a man of great self-control, and, of course, did not in the least become offended.

"Strange!" said he, seriously. "You surely didn't follow my directions."

"I surely did. The first gate on the left-hand side. But your two tall poplars was one tall elm."

"There it is again!" and the doctor, in the fulness of his surprise, actually let a small package, that he held in his hand, fall upon the counter. "I told you poplars, distinctly. The elm-tree gate is at least a quarter of a mile this side. But, to settle the matter at once," and the doctor, speaking like a man who was about doing a desperate thing, turned to his shelves and took therefrom a bottle of the Universal Restorer--"here's the medicine. I know it will cure you. Take a bottle. It shall cost you nothing."

The sick man, tempted strongly by the hope of a cure, hesitated for a short time, and then said--

"I don't want your stuff for nothing. But half a dollar won't kill me."

So he drew a coin from his pocket, laid it upon the counter, and, taking the medicine, went slowly away.

"Rather a hard customer that," said the doctor to himself, with a chuckle, as he slipped the money in his drawer. "But I'll take good care to send the next one like him a little farther on his fool's errand. He'd much better have taken my word for it in the beginning."

The sick man never came back for a second bottle of the "Restorer." Whether the first bottle killed or cured him is, to the chronicler, unknown.

TRYING TO BE A GENTLEMAN.

THE efforts which certain young men make, on entering the world, to become gentlemen, is not a little amusing to sober, thoughtful lookers on. To "become" is not, perhaps, what is aimed at, so much as to make people believe that they are gentlemen; for if you should happen to insinuate any thing to the contrary, no matter how wide from the mark they go, you may expect to receive summary punishment for your insolence.

One of these characters made himself quite conspicuous, in Baltimore, a few years ago. His name was L--, and he hailed from Richmond, we believe, and built some consequence upon the fact that he was a son of the Old Dominion. He dressed in the extreme of fashion; spent a good deal of time strutting up and down Market street, switching his rattan; boarded at one of the hotels; drank wines freely, and pretended to be quite a judge of their quality; swore round oaths occasionally, and talked of his honour as a gentleman.

His knowledge of etiquette he obtained from books, and was often quite as literal in his observance of prescribing modes and forms, as was the Frenchman in showing off his skill in our idioms, when he informed a company of ladies, as an excuse for leaving them, that he had "some fish to fry." That he was no gentleman, internally or externally, was plain to every one; yet he verily believed himself to be one of the first water, and it was a matter of constant care to preserve the reputation.

Among those who were thrown into the society of this L--, was a young man, named Briarly, who had rather more basis to his character, and who, although he dressed well, and moved in good society, by no means founded thereon his claim to be called a gentleman. He never liked L--, because he saw that he had no principle whatever; that all about him was mere sham. The consequence was that he was hardly civil to him, a circumstance which L--was slow either to notice or resent.

It happened, one day, that the tailor of Briarly asked him if he knew any thing about L--.

"Not much," replied Briarly. "Why do you ask?"

"Do you think him a gentleman?"

"How do you estimate a gentleman?" asked the young man.

"A gentleman is a man of honour," returned the tailor.

"Very well; then L--must be a gentleman, for he has a great deal to say about his honour."

"I know he has; but I find that those who talk much of their honour, don't, as a general thing, possess much to brag of."

"Then, he talks to you of his honour?"

"Oh, yes; and gives me his word as a gentleman."

"Does he always keep his word as a gentleman?"

The tailor shrugged his shoulders.

"Not always," he replied.

"Then I should say that the word of a gentleman isn't worth much," smilingly remarked Briarly.

"Not the word of such broadcloth and buckram gentlemen as he is."

"Take care what you say, or you may find yourself called to account for using improper language about this gentleman. We may have a duel on the carpet."

"It would degrade him to fight with a tailor," replied the man of shears. "So I may speak my mind with impunity. But if he should challenge me, I will refuse to fight him, on the ground that he is no gentleman."

"Indeed! How will you prove that?"

"Every man must be permitted to have his own standard of gentility."

"Certainly."

"I have mine."

"Ah! Well, how do you measure gentility?"

"By my ledger. A man who doesn't pay his tailor's bill, I consider no gentleman. If L--sends me a challenge, I will refuse to fight him on that ground."

"Good!" said Briarly, laughing. "I'm afraid, if your standard were adopted, that a great many, who now pass themselves off for gentlemen, would be held in little estimation."

"It is the true standard, nevertheless," replied Shears. "A man may try to be a gentleman as much as he pleases, but if he don't try to pay his tailor's bill at the same time, he tries in vain."

"You may be right enough," remarked Briarly, a good deal amused at the tailor's mode of estimating a gentleman, and possessed of a new fact in regard to L--'s claim to the honourable distinction of which he so often boasted.

Shortly after this, it happened that L--made Briarly angry about something, when the latter very unceremoniously took hold of the handle on the young man's face, and moved his head around.

Fortunately, the body moved with the head, or the consequences might have been serious. There were plenty to assure L--that for this insult he must, if he wished to be considered a gentleman, challenge Briarly, and shoot him--if he could. Several days elapsed before L--'s courage rose high enough to enable him to send the deadly missive by the hand of a friend.

Meantime, a wag of a fellow, an intimate friend of Briarly's, appeared in Market street in an old rusty coat, worn hat, and well-mended but clean and whole trowsers and vest. Friend after friend stopped him, and, in astonishment, inquired the cause of this change. He had but one answer, in substance. But we will give his own account of the matter, as related to three or four young bucks in an oyster-house, where they happened to meet him. L--was of the number.

"A patch on your elbow, Tom, as I live!" said one; "and here's another on your vest. Why, old fellow, this is premeditated poverty."

"Better wear patched garments than owe for new ones," replied Tom, with great sobriety.

"Bless us! when did you turn economist?"

"Ever since I tried to be a gentleman."

"What?"

"Ever since I tried to be a gentleman. I may strut up and down Market street in fine clothes, switch my rattan about, talk nonsense to silly ladies, swear, and drink wine; but if I don't pay my tailor, I'm no gentleman."

"Nonsense," was replied. There was a general laugh, but few of Tom's auditors felt very much flattered by his words.

"No nonsense at all," he said. "We may put on airs of gentility, boast of independence and spirit, and all that; but it's a mean kind of gentility that will let a man flourish about in a fine coat for which he owes his tailor. Wyville has a large bill against me for clothes, Grafton another for boots, and Cox another for hats. I am trying to pay these off--trying to become a gentleman."

"Then you don't consider yourself a gentleman now?" said one.

"Oh, no. I'm only trying to become a gentleman," meekly replied Tom, though a close observer could see a slight twitching in the corner of his mouth, and a slight twinkle in the corner of his eye. "My honour is in pawn, and will remain so until I pay these bills. Then I shall feel like holding up my head again, and looking gentlemen in the face."

The oddness of this conceit, and the boldness with which it was carried out, attracted attention, and made a good deal of talk at the time. A great many tailors' bills were paid instanter that would not have been paid for months, perhaps not at all. In a few days, however, Tom appeared abroad again, quite as handsomely dressed as before, alleging that his uncle had taken compassion on him, and, out of admiration for his honest principles, paid off his bills and made a gentleman of him once more.

No one, of course believed Tom to be sincere in all this. It was looked upon as one of his waggish tricks, intended to hit off some one, or perhaps the whole class of fine tailor-made gentlemen who forget their benefactors.

While Tom was metamorphosed as stated, Briarly was waited upon one day, by a young man, who presented him with a challenge to mortal combat from the insulted L--, and desired him to name his friend.

"I cannot accept the challenge," said Briarly, promptly.

"Why not?" asked the second of L--, in surprise.

"Because your principal is no gentleman."

"What!"

"Is no gentleman," coolly returned Briarly.

"Explain yourself, sir, if you please."

"He doesn't pay his tailor, he doesn't pay his boot-maker, he doesn't pay his hatter--he is, therefore, no gentleman, and I cannot fight him."

"You will be posted as a coward," said the second, fiercely.

"In return for which I will post him as no gentleman, and give the evidence," replied Briarly.

"I will take his place. You will hear from me shortly," said the second, turning away.

"Be sure you don't owe your tailor any thing, for if you do, I will not stoop to accept your challenge," returned Briarly. "I will consider it _prima facie_ evidence that you are no gentleman. I know Patterson very well, and will, in the mean time, inform myself on the subject."

All this was said with the utmost gravity, and with a decision of tone and manner that left no doubt of the intention.

The second withdrew. An hour elapsed, but no new challenge came. Days went by, but no "posters" drew crowds at the corners. Gradually, the matter got wind, to the infinite amusement of such as happened to know L--, who was fairly driven from a city where it was no use trying to be a gentleman without paying his tailor's bill.

TAKING A PRESCRIPTION.

SUMMER before last, the time when cholera had poisoned the air, a gentleman of wealth, standing and intelligence, from one of the Southern or Middle States, while temporarily sojourning in Boston, felt certain "premonitory symptoms," that were rather alarming, all things considered. So he inquired of the hotel-keeper where he could find a good physician.

"One of your best," said he, with an emphasis in his tones that showed how important was the matter in his eyes.

"Doctor--stands at the head of his profession in our city," returned the hotel-keeper. "You may safely trust yourself in his hands."

"Thank you. I will call upon him immediately," said the gentleman, and away he went.

The doctor, fortunately, as the gentleman mentally acknowledged, was in his office. The latter, after introducing himself, stated his case with some concern of manner; when the doctor felt his pulse, looked at his tongue, and made sundry professional inquiries.

"Your system is slightly disturbed," remarked the doctor, after fully ascertaining the condition of his patient, "but I'll give you a prescription that will bring all right again in less than twenty-four hours."

And so he took out his pencil and wrote a brief prescription.

"How much am I indebted, doctor?" inquired the gentleman, as he slipped the little piece of paper into his vest pocket.

"Five dollars for the consultation and prescription," replied the doctor, bowing.

"Cheap enough, if I am saved from an attack of cholera," said the patient as he drew forth his pocket-book and abstracted from its folds the required fee. He then returned to the hotel, and, going to one of the clerks, or bar-keeper, in the office, said to him--

"I wish you would send out and get me this prescription."

"Prescription! Why, Mr.--, are you sick?" returned the bar-keeper.

"I'm not very well," was answered.

"What's the matter?"

"Symptoms of the prevailing epidemic."

"Oh! Ah! And you've been to see a doctor?"

"Yes."

"Who?"

"Doctor--"

The bar-keeper shrugged his shoulders, as he replied--

"Good physician. None better. That all acknowledge. But, if you'll let me prescribe for you, I'll put you all straight in double-quick time."

"Well, what will you prescribe, Andy?" said the gentleman.

"I'll prescribe this." And, as he spoke, he drew from under the counter a bottle labelled--"Mrs.--'s Cordial."

"Take a glass of that, and you can throw your doctor's prescription into the fire."

"You speak confidently, Andy?"

"I do, for I know its virtue."

The gentleman, who had in his hand a prescription for which he had paid five dollars to one of the most skilful and judicious physicians in New England, strange as it may seem, listened to this bar-keeper, and in the end actually destroyed the prescription, and poured down his throat a glass of "Mrs.--'s Cordial."

It is no matter of surprise that, ere ten o'clock in the evening, the gentleman's premonitory symptoms, which had experienced a temporary abatement, assumed a more alarming character. And now, instead of going to, he was obliged to send for, a physician. Doctor--, whom he had consulted, was called in, and immediately recognised his patient of the morning.

"I'm sorry to find you worse," said he. "I did not in the least doubt the efficacy of the remedy I gave you. But, have you taken the prescription."

"Wh--wh--why no, doctor," stammered the half-ashamed patient. "I confess that I did not. I took something else."

"Something else! What was it?"

"I thought a glass of Mrs.--'s cordial would answer just as well."

"You did! and, pray, who prescribed this for you?" said the doctor, moving his chair instinctively from his patient and speaking in a rather excited tone of voice.

"No one prescribed it. I took it on the recommendation of the bar-keeper down-stairs, who said that he knew it would cure me."

"And you had my prescription in your pocket at the same time! The prescription of a regular physician, of twenty-five years' practice, set aside for a quack nostrum, recommended by a bar-keeper! A fine compliment to common sense and the profession, truly! My friend, if I must speak out plainly, you deserve to die--and I shouldn't much wonder if you got your deserts! Good evening!"

Saying this, the doctor arose, and was moving towards the door, when the frightened patient called to him in such appealing tones, that he was constrained to pause. A humble confession of error, and repeated apologies, softened the physician's suddenly awakened anger, and he came back and resumed his seat.

"My friend," said he, on recovering his self-possession, which had been considerably disturbed, "Do you know the composition of Mrs.--'s cordial, which you took with so much confidence?"

"I do not!" replied the gentleman.

"Humph! Well, I can tell you. About nine-tenths of it is cheap brandy, or New-England rum, which completely destroys or neutralizes the salutary medicaments that form the tithe thereof. I don't wonder that this stuff has aggravated all your symptoms. I would, if in your state of health, about as leave take poison."

"Pray, don't talk to me in that way, doctor," said the patient, imploringly. "I am sick, and what you say can only have the effect to make me worse. I am already sufficiently punished for my folly. Prescribe for me once more, and be assured that I will not again play the fool."

Doctor--'s professional indignation had pretty well burned itself out by this time; so he took up the case again, and once more gave a prescription. In a couple of days, the gentleman was quite well again; but that Mrs.--'s cordial cost him twenty dollars.

He is now a little wiser than he was before; and is very careful as to whose prescriptions he takes. It would be better for the health of the entire community if every individual would be as careful in the same matter as he is now. Those who are sick should, ere taking medicine, consult a physician of experience and skill; but, above all things, they should shun advertised nostrums, in the sale of which the manufacturers and vendors are interested. Often testimonials as to their efficacy are mere forgeries. Health is too vital a thing to be risked in this way.

THE YANKEE AND THE DUTCHMAN;

OR, I'LL GIVE OR TAKE.

A SHREWD Yankee, with about five hundred dollars in his pocket, came along down South, a few years ago, seeking for some better investment of his money than offered in the land of steady habits, where he found people, as a general thing, quite as wide awake as himself.

In Philadelphia, our adventurer did not stay long; but something in the air of Baltimore pleased him, and he lingered about there for several weeks, prying into every thing and getting acquainted with everybody that was accessible. Among others for whom the Yankee seemed to take a liking, was a Dutchman, who was engaged in manufacturing an article for which there was a very good demand, and on which there was a tempting profit. He used to drop in almost every day and have a talk with the Dutchman, who seemed like a good, easy kind of a man, and just the game for the Yankee, if he should think it worth the candle.

"Why don't you enlarge your business?" asked Jonathan, one day. "You can sell five times what you make."

"I knows dat," returned the Dutchman, "but I wants de monish. Wait a while, den I enlarsh."

"Then you are laying by something?"

"Leetle mite."

In two or three days, Jonathan came round again. He had thought the matter all over, and was prepared to invest his five hundred dollars in the Dutchman's business, provided the latter had no objections.

"It's a pity to creep along in the way you are going," he said, "when so much money might be made in your business by the investment of more capital. Can't you borrow a few hundred dollars?"

"Me borrow? Oh, no; nobody lend me few hunnard dollar. I go on, save up; bimeby I enlarsh."

"But somebody else, with plenty of money, might go into the business and fill the market; then it would be no use to enlarge."

"Sorry, but can't help it. No monish, no enlarsh."

"I've got five hundred dollars."

The phlegmatic Dutchman brightened up.

"Fife hunnard dollar?"

"Yes."

"Much monish. Do great business on fife hunnard dollar."

"That you could."

"You lend me de monish?" asked the Dutchman.

Jonathan shook his head.

"Can't do that. I'm going into business myself."

"Ah! what business?"

"Don't know yet; haven't decided. Into your business, maybe."

"My business!" The Dutchman looked surprised.

"Yes; it appears to me like a very good business. Don't you think I could start very fair on five hundred dollars?"

The Dutchman hesitated to answer that question; he didn't want to say yes, and he was conscious that the Yankee knew too much of his affairs to believe him if he said no. He, therefore, merely shrugged his shoulders, looked stupid, and remained silent.

"You don't know of a large room that I could get anywhere, do you?"

The Dutchman shook his head, and gave a decided negative.

Jonathan said no more on that occasion. Two days afterwards, he dropped in again. "Have you fount a room yet?" asked the Dutchman.

"I've seen two or three," replied Jonathan. "One of them will suit me, I guess. But I'll tell you what I've been thinking about since I saw you. If I open another establishment, the business will be divided. Now, it has struck me, that, perhaps, it might be better, all round, for me to put my five hundred dollars into your business as a partner, and push the whole thing with might and main. How does it strike you?"

"Vell, I can't say shust now; I'll dink of him. You put in fife hunnard dollar, you say?"

"Yes; five hundred down, in hard cash--every dollar in gold."

"Fife hunnard. Let us see." And the Dutchman raised his chin and dropped his eyes, and stood for some minutes in a deep study.

"Fife hunnard," he repeated several times.

"Come to-morrow," he at length said. "Den I tell you."

"Very well. I'll drop in to-morrow," replied the Yankee. "I'm not very anxious about it, you see; but, as the thing occurred to me, I thought I would mention it. Five hundred dollars will make a great difference in your business."

On the next day, Jonathan appeared, looking quite indifferent about the matter. The Dutchman had turned over the proposition, and dreamed about it, both sleeping and waking. His final decision was to take in the Yankee as a partner.

Now, a cool, thoughtful Dutchman, and a quick-witted Yankee, are not a very bad match for each other, provided the former sees reason to have his wits about him, which was the case in the present instance. The Dutchman meant all fair; he had no thought of taking any advantage: but he had suspicion enough of Jonathan to put him on his guard, and look to see that no high-handed game was played off upon him.

"You put in fife hunnard dollar?" he said, when the Yankee appeared.

"Yes."

"Hard cash?"

"Yes, in gold."

"Gold!"

"All in half-eagles like these." And he drew a handful of gold coins from his pocket.

"Very well; I dake you. You put in fife hunnard dollar, I put in all I got here; den we joint owner."

"Equal partners?"

"Yes."

"That is, I own half and you half."

"Yes."

"And we divide, equally, the profits?"

"Yes."

"Very well; that'll do, I guess. We'll have writings drawn to this effect--articles of co-partnership, you know."

"Oh, yes."

This settled, nothing remained but to have the articles drawn, the money paid in, and the agreement signed and witnessed; all of which was done in the course of a few weeks. Then Jonathan went into the business, and infused some Yankee spirit: into every part of it; he made things move ahead fast. In less than a year, the business was much more than doubled, and the profits in proportion; thut Jonathan was not satisfied with his half of these--he wanted the whole; and, hedge-hog-like, he did all he could, by merely bristling up, to make things unpleasant for his partner. But the Dutchman was by no means thin-skinned; the sharp spikes of the Yankee's character annoyed him but little. As for himself, he felt very well satisfied with his share of the profits, and willing to go on as they were going.

At the end of the second year, when the establishment had grown into quite an important and profitable concern, the Yankee had a visit from an Eastern friend, a man of some capital.

"That's a stupid-looking fellow, that partner of yours," said this person.

"And he is as stupid as a mule. I have to carry him on my back, and the business, too."

"Why don't you get rid of him?"

"I've been wanting to do so for some time, but haven't seen my way clear yet."

"Does your partnership expire at any time, by limitation?"

"No. It can only be dissolved by mutual consent."

"Won't he sell out his interest?"

"I don't know; but I've always intended to make him an offer to give or take, as soon as I could see my way clear to do it."

"Don't you see your way clear now?"

"No. When such an offer is made, it must be of a sum that it is impossible for him to raise; otherwise, he might agree to give the amount proposed, and I don't want that. I wish to stick to the business, for it's going to be a fortune. At present, I am not able to raise what I think should be offered."

"How much is that?"

"About three thousand dollars. I only put in five hundred, two years ago. You can see how the business has increased. The half is worth five thousand in reality, and I would give, rather than take that sum."

"You think your partner can't raise three thousand dollars?"

"Oh, no; he's got no friends, and he hasn't three hundred out of the business."

"How long would you want the sum mentioned?"

"A year or eighteen months."

"I reckon I can supply it," said the friend. "It's a pity for you to be tied to this old Dutchman, when you can conduct the business just as well yourself."

"A great deal better; he is only in my way."

"Very well. You make him the offer to give or take three thousand dollars, and I will supply the money. But you ought, by all means, to add a stipulation, that whoever goes out shall sign a written agreement not to go into the same business for at least ten years to come. If you don't do this, he can take his three thousand dollars and start another establishment upon as large a scale as the one you have, and seriously affect your operations."

"Such a stipulation must be signed, of course," remarked Jonathan. "I've always had that in my mind; let me once get this business into my hands, and I'll make it pay better than it ever has yet. Before ten years roll over my head, if I a'n't worth forty or fifty thousand dollars, then I don't know any thing."

"You think it will pay like that?"

"Yes, I know it. I haven't put out half my strength yet, for I didn't want to let this Dutchman see what could be made of the business. He'll catch at three thousand dollars like a trout at a fly; it's more money than he ever saw in his life."

On the next day, Jonathan told his partner that he wanted to have some talk with him; so they retired into their little private office, to be alone.

"Vat you want?" said the Dutchman, when they were by themselves; for he saw that his partner had something on his mind of graver import than usual.

"I'm tired of a co-partnership business," said the Yankee, coming straight to the main point.

"Vell?" And the Dutchman looked at him without betraying the least surprise.

"Either of us could conduct this business as well as both together."

"Vell?"

"Now, I propose to buy you out or sell you my interest, as you please."

"Vell?"

"What will you give me for my half of the business, and let me go at something else?" The Dutchman shook his head.

"At a word, then, to make the matter as simple as possible, and as fair as possible, I'll tell you what I'll give or take."

"Vell?"

"Of course, it would not be fair for the one who goes out to commence the same business. I would not do it. There should be a written agreement to this effect."

"Yes. Vell, vat vill you give or dake?"

"I'll give or take three thousand dollars; I don't care which."

"Dree dousand dollar! You give dat?"

"Yes."

"Or take dat?"

"Either."

"You pay down de monish?"

"Cash down."

"Humph! Dree dousand dollar! Me tink about him."

"How long do you want to think?"

"Undil de mornin."

"Very well; we'll settle the matter to-morrow morning."

In the morning, Jonathan's friend came with three thousand dollars, in order to pay the Dutchman right down, and have the whole business concluded while the matter was warm.

Meantime, the Dutchman, who was not quite so friendless nor so stupid as the Yankee supposed, turned the matter over in his mind very coolly. He understood Jonathan's drift as clearly as he understood it himself, and was fully as well satisfied as he was in regard to the future value of the business which he had founded. Two of their largest customers were Germans, and to them he went and made a full statement of his position, and gave them evidence that entirely satisfied them as to the business. Without hesitation, they agreed to advance him the money he wanted, and to enable him to strike while the iron was hot, checked him out the money on the next morning. One of them accompanied him to his manufactory, to be a witness in the transaction.

Jonathan and his friend were first on the spot.

In about ten minutes, the Dutchman and his friend arrived.

"Well, have you made up your mind yet?" asked the Yankee.

"De one who goes out ish not to begin de same business?"

"No, certainly not; it wouldn't be fair."

"No, I 'spose not."

"Suppose we draw up a paper, and sign it to that effect, before we go any farther."

"Vell."

The paper was drawn, signed, and witnessed by the friends of both parties.

"You are prepared to give or take?" said Jonathan, with same eagerness in his manner.

"Yes."

"Well, which will you do?"

"I vill give," coolly replied the Dutchman.

"Give!" echoed the Yankee, taken entirely by surprise at so unexpected a reply. "Give! You mean, take."

"I no means dake, I means give. Here ish de monish;" and he drew forth a large roll of bank-bills. "You say give or dake--I say give."

With the best face it was possible to put upon the matter, Jonathan, who could not back out, took the three thousand dollars, and, for that sum, signed away, on the spot, all right, title, and claim to benefit in the business, from that day henceforth and for ever.

With his three thousand dollars in his pocket, the Yankee started off farther South, vowing that, if he lived to be as old as Methuselah, he'd never have any thing to do with a Dutchman again.

A TIPSY PARSON.

IN a village not a hundred miles from Philadelphia, resided the Rev. Mr. Manlius, who had the pastoral charge of a very respectable congregation, and was highly esteemed by them; but there was one thing in which he did not give general satisfaction, and in consequence of which many excellent members of his church felt seriously scandalized. He would neither join a temperance society, nor omit his glass of wine when he felt inclined to take it. It is only fair to say, however, that such spirituous indulgences were not of frequent occurrence. It was more the principle of the thing, as he said, that he stood upon, than any thing else, that prevented his signing a temperance pledge.

Sundry were the attacks, both open and secret, to which the Reverend Mr. Manlius was subjected, and many were the discussions into which he was drawn by the advocates of total abstinence. His mode of argument was very summary.

"I would no more sign a pledge not to drink brandy than I would sign a pledge not to steal," was the position he took. "I wish to be free to choose good or evil, and to act right because it is wrong to do otherwise. I do not find fault with others for signing a pledge, nor for abstaining from wine. If they think it right, it is right for them. But as for myself, I would cut off my right hand before I would bind myself by mere external restraint. My bonds are internal principles. I am temperate because intemperance is sin. For men who have abused their freedom, and so far lost all rational control over themselves that they cannot resist the insane spirit of intemperance, the pledge is all important. Sign it, I say, in the name of Heaven; but do not sign it because this, that, or the other temperate man has signed it, but because you feel it to be your only hope. Do it for yourself, and do it if you are the only man in the world who acts thus. To sign because another man, whom you think more respectable, has signed, will give you little or no strength. You must do it for yourself, and because it is right."

The parson was pretty ready with the tongue, and rarely came off second best when his opponents dragged him into a controversy, although his arguments were called by them, when he was not present, "mere fustian."

"His love for wine and brandy is at the bottom of all this hostility to the temperance cause," was boldly said of him by individuals in and out of his church. But especially were the members of other churches severe upon him.

"He'll turn out a drunkard," said one.

"I shouldn't be surprised to see him staggering in the streets before two years," said another.

"He does more harm to the temperance cause than ten drunkards," alleged a third.

While others said--"Isn't it scandalous!"

"He's a disgrace to his profession!"

"_He_ pretend to have religion!"

"A minister indeed!"

And so the changes rang.

All this time, Mr. Manlius firmly maintained his ground, taking his glass of wine whenever it suited him. At last, after the occurrence of a dinner-party given by a family of some note in the place, and at which the minister was present, and at which wine was circulated freely, a rather scandalous report got abroad, and soon went buzzing all over the village. A young man, who made no secret of being fond of his glass, and who was at the dinner-party, met, on the day after, a very warm advocate of temperance, and a member of a different denomination from that in which Mr. Manlius was a minister, and said to him, with mock gravity--"We had a _rara avis_ at our dinner-party yesterday, Perkins."

"Indeed. What wonderful thing was that?"

"A tipsy parson."

"A what?"

The man's eyes became instantly almost as big as saucers.

"A tipsy parson."

"Who? Mr. Manlius?" was eagerly inquired.

"I didn't say so. I call no names."

"He was present, I know; and drank wine, I am told, like a fish."

"I wasn't aware before that fishes drank wine," said the man gravely.

"It was Manlius, wasn't it?" urged the other.

"I call no names," was repeated. "All I said was, that we had a tipsy parson--and so we had. I'll prove it before a jury of a thousand, if necessary."

"It's no more than I expected," said the temperance man. "He's a mere winebibber at best. He pretend to preach the gospel! I wonder he isn't struck dead in the pulpit."

The moment his informant had left him, Perkins started forth to communicate the astounding intelligence that Mr. Manlius had been drunk on the day before, at Mr. Reeside's dinner-party. From lip to lip the scandal flew, with little less than electric quickness. It was all over the village by the next day. Some doubted, some denied, but the majority believed the story--it was so likely to be true.

This occurred near the close of the week, and Sunday arrived before the powers that be in the church were able to confer upon the subject, and cite the minister to appear and answer for himself on the scandalous charge of drunkenness. There was an unusual number of vacant pews during service, both morning and afternoon.

Monday came, and, early in the day, a committee of two deacons waited upon Mr. Manlius, and informed him of the report in circulation, and of their wish that he would appear before them on the next afternoon, to give an account of himself, as the church deemed the matter far too serious to be passed lightly over. The minister was evidently a good deal surprised and startled at this, but he neither denied the charge nor attempted any palliation, merely saying that he would attend, of course.

"It's plain that he's guilty," said Deacon Jones to Deacon Todd, as they walked with sober faces away from the minister's dwelling.

"Plain? Yes--it's written in his face," returned Deacon Todd. "So much for opposing temperance reforms and drinking wine. It's a judgment upon him."

"But what a scandal to our church!" said Deacon Jones.

"Yes--think of that. He must be suspended, and not restored until he signs the pledge."

"I don't believe he'll ever do that."

"Why not?"

"He says he would cut off his right hand first."

"People are very fond of cutting off their right hand, you know. My word for it, this will do the business for him. He will be glad enough to get the matter hushed up so easily. I shall go for suspending him until he signs the pledge."

"I don't know but that I will go with you. If he signs the pledge, he's safe."

And so the two deacons settled the matter.

On the next day, in grave council assembled were all the deacons of the church, besides sundry individuals who had come as the minister's friends or accusers. Perkins, who had put the report in circulation, was there, at the special request of one of the deacons, who had ascertained that he had as much, or a little more to say, in the matter, than any one.

Perkins was called upon, rather unexpectedly, to answer one or two questions, immediately on the opening of the meeting, but as he was a stanch temperance man, and cordially despised the minister, he was bold to reply.

"Mr. Perkins," said the presiding deacon, "as far as we can learn, this scandalous charge originated with you: I will, therefore, ask you--did you say that the Rev. Mr. Manlius was drunk at Mr. Reeside's dinner-party?"

"I did," was the unhesitating answer.

"Were you present at Mr. Reeside's?"

"No, sir."

"Did you see Mr. Manlius coming from the house intoxicated?"

"No."

"What evidence, then, have you of the truth of your charge? We have conversed this morning with several who were present, and all say that they observed nothing out of the way in Mr. Manlius, on the occasion of which you speak. This is a serious matter, and we should like to have your authority for a statement so injurious to the reputation of the minister and the cause of religion."

"My authority is Mr. Burton, who was present."

"Did he tell you that Mr. Manlius was intoxicated?"

"He said there was a drunken minister there, and Mr. Manlius, I have ascertained, was the only clergyman present."

"Was that so?" asked the deacon of an individual who was at Mr. Reeside's.

"Mr. Manlius was the only clergyman there," was replied.

"Then," said Perkins, "if there was a drunken minister there, it must have been Mr. Manlius. I can draw no other inference."

"Can Mr. Burton be found?" was now asked.

An individual immediately volunteered to go in search of him. In half an hour he was produced. As he entered the grave assembly, he looked around with great composure upon the array of solemn faces and eyes intently fixed upon him. He did not appear in the least abashed.

"You were at Mr. Reeside's last week, at a dinner-party, I believe?" said the presiding deacon.

"I was."

"Did you see Mr. Manlius intoxicated on that occasion?"

"Mr. Manlius! Good heavens! no! I can testify, upon oath, that he was as solemn as a judge. Who says that I made so scandalous an allegation?"

Burton appeared to grow strongly excited.

"I say so," cried Perkins in a loud voice.

"You say so? And, pray, upon what authority?"

"Upon the authority of your own words."

"Never!"

"But you did tell me so."

Perkins was much excited.

"When?"

"On the day after the dinner-party. Don't you remember what you said to me?"

"Oh, yes--perfectly."

"That you had a drunken minister at dinner?"

"No, I never said that."

"But you did, I can be qualified to it."

"I said we had a 'tipsy parson.'"

"And, pray, what is the difference?"

At the words "tipsy parson," the minister burst into a loud laugh, and so did two or three others who had been at Mr. Reeside's. The grave deacon in the chair looked around with frowning wonder at such indecorum, and felt that especially ill-timed was the levity of the minister.

"I do not understand this," he said, with great gravity.

"I can explain it," remarked an individual, rising, "as I happened to be at Mr. Reeside's, and know all about the 'tipsy parson.' The cook of our kind hostess, in her culinary ingenuity, furnished a dessert, which she called 'tipsy parson,'--made, I believe, by soaking sponge-cake in brandy and pouring a custard over it. It is therefore true, as our friend Burton has said, that there was a 'tipsy parson' at the table; but as to the drunken minister of Mr. Perkins, I know nothing."

Never before, in a grave and solemn assembly of deacons, was there such a sudden and universal burst of laughter, such a holding of sides and vibration of bodies, as followed this unexpected speech. In the midst of the confusion and noise, Perkins quietly retired. He has been known, ever since, in the village, much to his chagrin and scandalization, he being still a warm temperance man, as the "tipsy parson."

"There goes the 'tipsy parson'" he hears said, as he passes along the street, a dozen times in a week, and he is now seriously inclined to leave the village, in order to escape the ridicule his over-zealous effort to blast the minister's reputation has called into existence. As for the Rev. Mr. Manlius, he often tells the story, and laughs over it as heartily as any one.

MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING;

OR, THE REASON WHY MRS. TODD DIDN'T SPEAK TO MRS. JONES.

"DID you see that?" said Mrs. Jones to her friend Mrs. Lion, with whom she was walking.

"See what?"

"Why, that Mrs. Todd didn't speak to me."

"No. I thought she spoke to you as well as to me."

"Indeed, then, and she didn't."

"Are you sure?"

"Sure? Can't I believe my own eyes? She nodded and spoke to you, but she didn't as much as look at me."

"What in the world can be the reason, Mrs. Jones?"

"Dear knows!"

"You certainly must be mistaken. Mrs. Todd would not refuse to speak to one of her old friends in the street."

"Humph! I don't know; she's rather queer, sometimes. She's taken a miff at something, I suppose, and means to cut my acquaintance. But let her. I shall not distress myself about it; she isn't all the world."

"Have you done any thing likely to offend her?" asked Mrs. Lyon.

"Me?" returned her companion. "No, not that I am aware of; but certain people are always on the lookout for something or other wrong, and Mrs. Todd is just one of that kind."

"I never thought so, Mrs. Jones."

"She is, then. I know her very well."