Chapter XIII: Part 13

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"_A hundred and three thunder--_"

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

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

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

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

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

The Advertisement.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Choosing rather to give our life pictures a familiar and diverting--and certainly none the less instructive garb--than to hunt up misery, and depict the woeful tragics of our existence, we will give the facts of a case--not uncommon, we ween, either, that came to us from a friend of one of the parties.

In most cities--especially, perhaps, in Baltimore and Washington, are any quantity of decayed families; widows and orphans of men--who, while blessed with oxygen and hydrogen sufficient to keep them healthy and active--held offices, or such positions in the business world as enabled them and their families to carry pretty stiff necks, high heads, and go into what is called "good society;" meaning of course where good furniture garnishes good finished domiciles, good carpets, good rents, good dinners, and where good clothes are exhibited--but where good intentions, good manners and morals are mostly of no great importance. As, in most all such cases, when, by some fortuitous accident, the head of the family collapses, or dies,--the reckless regard for society having led to the squandering of the income, fast or faster than it came, the poor family is driven by the same society, so coveted, to hide away--move off, and by a thousand dodges of which wounded pride is capable, work their way through the world, under tissues of false pretences; at once ludicrous and pitiable. Such a family we have in view. Colonel Somebody held a lucrative office under government, in the city of Washington. Colonel Somebody, one day, very unexpectedly, died. There was nothing mysterious in that, but the Somebodies having always cut quite a swell in the "society" of the capital--which society, let us tell you, is of the most fluctuating, tin-foil and ephemeral character; it was by some considered strange, that as soon as Colonel Somebody had been decently buried in his grave, his family at once made a sale of their most expensive furniture--the horses, carriage, and man-servant disappeared, and the Somebodies apprized society that they were going north, to reside upon an estate of the Colonel's in New York. And so they vanished. Whither they went or how they fared society did not know, and society did not care!

Mrs. Somebody had two daughters and a son, the eldest twenty-three, _confessedly_, and the youngest, the son, seventeen. Marriages, in such society, floating and changing as it does in Washington, are not frequent, and less happy or prosperous when effected; every body, inclined to become acquainted, or form matrimonial connections, are ever on the alert for something or somebody better than themselves; and under such circumstances, naturally enough, Miss Alice Somebody--though a pretty girl--talented, as the world goes, highly educated, too, as many hundreds beside her, was still a spinster at twenty-three. The fact was, Mrs. Somebody was a woman of experience in the world--indeed, a dozen years' experience in life at Washington, had given her very definite ideas of expediency and diplomacy; and hence, as the means were cut off to live in their usual style and expensiveness--Mrs. Somebody packed up and retired to Baltimore. The son soon found an occupation in a store--the daughter, being a woman of taste and education, resorted to--as a matter of _diversion_--they could not think of earning a living, of course!--the needle--while Mrs. Somebody arranged a pair of neat apartments, for two "gentlemen of unexceptionable reference," as boarders.

During their palmy days at the capital of the nation, Miss Alice Somebody came in contact with a young gentleman named Rhapsody,--of pleasant and respectable demeanor, _an office-holder_, but not high up enough to suit the tastes and aims of Colonel Somebody and his lady; and so, our friend Rhapsody stood little or no chance for favor or preferment in the graces of Miss Alice, though he was a recognized visitor at the Colonel's house, and essayed to make an impression upon the heart's affections of the Colonel's daughter.

Time fled, and with its fleetings came those changes in the fates and fortunes of the Somebodies, we have noted. Nor was our friend Rhapsody without his changes,--mutations of fortune, a change of government, made changes. Rhapsody one morning was not as much surprised as mortified to find his "services no longer required," as a new hand was awaiting his withdrawal. Rhapsody, true to custom at the capital--lived up to and ahead of his salary; and, when deposed, deemed it prudent to make his exit from a spot no longer likely to be favorable to the self-respect or personal comfort of a man bereft of power, and without patronage or position. Rhapsody, by trade (luckily he had a trade), was a boot-maker. Start not, reader, at the idea; we know "shoemaker" may have a tendency to shock some people, whose moral and mental culture has been sadly neglected, or quite perverted; but Rhapsody was but a boot-maker, and no doubt quite as gentlemanly--physically and mentally considered, as the many thousands who merely _wear_ boots, for the luxury of which they are indebted to the skill, labor and industry of others. Rhapsody came down gracefully, and quite as manfully, to his level, only changing the scene of his endeavors to the city of monuments. Rhapsody had feelings--pride. He sought obscurity, in which he might perform the necessary labors of his craft, to enable him to keep his head above water, and await that tide in the affairs of men, when perhaps he might again be drifted to fortune and favor.

Rhapsody took lodgings in a respectable hotel; he arose late--took breakfast, read the news--smoked--lounged--dressed, and went through the ordinary evolutions of a gentleman of leisure, until he dined at 3 P. M.; then, by a circuitous way, he proceeded to his shop--put on his working attire, and went at it faithfully, until midnight, when, having accomplished his maximum of toil, he re-dressed--walked to his hotel--talked politics--fashions, etc., took his glass of wine with a friend, and very quietly retired; to rise on the morrow, and go through the same routine from day to day, only varying it a little by an eye to an eligible marriage, or a place.

Rhapsody--we must give him the credit of the fact--from no mawkish feeling of his own, but from force of public opinion, resorted to this secret manner of eking out his daily bread, and acting out his part of the fictitious gentleman. During one of his morning lounges--accidentally, Rhapsody met Miss Somebody in the street. They had not met for some few years, and it may not be troublesome to conceive, that Miss Alice--under the new order of things--was more pleased than otherwise to renew the acquaintance of other days, with a gentleman still supposed to be--and his attire and manner surely gave no sign of an altered state of affairs--in a position recognizable by society.

Rhapsody renewed his attentions to the Somebody family, and Miss Alice in particular--with fervor. He admitted himself no longer an _attache_ of government, but offset the deprivation of government patronage, by asserting that he was graduating for a higher sphere in life than the drudgery and abjectness of a clerkship--he was studying political economy, and the learned profession of the law!

The Somebodies were _game_; not a concession would they make to stern indigence; it was merely for the sake of quietude, said Mrs. Somebody, and the solace of retirement from the gay and tempestuous whirls of society, that _we_ changed the scene and dropped a peg lower in domestic show. Rhapsody believed Colonel Somebody a man of substance. He knew how easy it was to account for the expenditure of fifteen hundred dollars a year, but it did not so readily appear possible for a man holding the Colonel's place and perquisites, some thousands a year, to die poor, without estate; ergo, the Somebodies were still, doubtless, _somebody_, and the more the infatuated Rhapsody dwelt upon it, the more he absorbed the idea of forming an alliance with the dead Colonel's family. And the favor with which he was received seemed to facilitate matters as desirably as could be wished for. What airy castles, or gossamer projects may have haunted the fancy of our sanguine friend, Rhapsody, we know not; but that he whacked away more cheerily at his trade, and kept up his appearances spiritedly, was evident enough. An expert and artistic craftsman, he secured paying work, and executed it to the satisfaction of his employers.

The industry of the Somebodies was one of the traits in the characters of the two young women, particularly commendatory to Rhapsody; he seldom paid them a morning or afternoon call, that they were not diligently engaged with needles and Berlin wool--fashioning wrought suspenders for brother, slippers for brother, or mother, or sister, or the Rev. Mr. So-and-So--the recently made inmate of the family. The multiplicity of such performances, for brother, mother, sister, the reverend gentleman--_mere pastime_, as Mrs. Somebody would remark,--most probably would have caused a mystery or misgiving in the minds of many adventurous _Lotharios_; but Rhapsody, though, as we see, a man of the world, had something yet to learn of society and its complexities. Things progressed smoothly--the reverend gentleman facetiously cajoled Miss Alice and the mother upon the issue of coming events--the lively young lawyer, etc., etc.,--and it seemed to be a settled matter that Miss Alice was to be the bride of Mr. Rhapsody at last.

Rhapsody, usually, after dark, in the evening, in his laboring garments, made his return of work and received more. Whilst thus out, one evening, on business, in making a sudden turn of a corner, he came plump upon Mrs. Somebody and Alice! Rhapsody would have dashed down a cellar--into a shop--up an alley, or sunk through the footwalk, had any such opportunity offered, but there was none--he was there--beneath the flame of a street lamp, with the eagle eyes of all the party upon him! Cut off from retreat, he boldly faced the enemy!

He was going to a political caucus meeting in a noisy and turbulent ward--apprehended a disturbance--donned those shady habiliments, and the large green bag in his hand, that a--well, though it did not seem to contain such goods, was supposed, for the nonce, to contain his books and papers; documents he was likely to have use for at the caucus! Rhapsody got through--it was a tight shave; he dexterously declined accompanying the ladies home--they were rather queerly attired themselves, it occurred to Rhapsody; they made some excuse for their appearance, and so the maskers _quit, even_. Time passed on--Alice and Rhapsody had almost climaxed the preparatory negotiations of an hymenial conclusion, when another _contretemps_ came to pass--it was the grand finale.

It was on a rather blustery night, that Rhapsody, in haste, sought the shop of his employer; he had work in hand which, being ordered done at a certain hour, for an anxious customer, he was in haste to deliver. His green bag under his arm, in rushed Rhapsody,--the servant of the customer was awaiting the arrival of the _bottier_ and his master's boots. The shopman eagerly seized Rhapsody's verdant-colored satchel, and out came the boots, and which underwent many critical inspections, eliciting sundry professional remarks from the shopman, to our hero, Rhapsody, who, in his business matters had assumed, it appeared, the more humble name of _Mr. Jones_, in the shop. The customer's servant stood by the counter--fencing off a lady, further on--from immediate notice of Rhapsody. A side glance revealed sundry patterns or specimens of most elegantly-wrought slippers--the boss of the shop, and the lady, were apparently negotiating a trade, in these embroidered articles; the lady, now but a few feet from Rhapsody and the garrulous shopman, turned toward the poor fellow just as the shopman had stuffed more work into the green bag--their eyes met. Rhapsody felt an all-overish sensation peculiar to that experienced by an amateur in a shower bath, during his first _douse_, or the incipient criminal detected in his initiatory crime! Poor Rhapsody felt like fainting, while Miss Alice Somebody, without the nerve to gather up her work, or withstand a further test of the force of circumstances, precipitately left the store, her face red as scarlet, and her demeanor wild and incomprehensible, at least to all but Rhapsody.

* * * * *

Rhapsody was at breakfast the next morning--a servant announced a gentleman in the parlor desirous of an interview with Mr. Rhapsody--it was granted, and soon _Jones_, the _boot-maker_, confronted the Rev. Mr. So-and-So. Though an inclination to _smile_ played about the pleasant features of the reverend gentleman, he assumed to be severe upon what he called the duplicity of Mr. Rhapsody; and that gentleman patiently hearing the story out, quietly asked:

"Are you, sir, here as an accuser--denouncer, or an ambassador of peace and good will?"

"The latter, sir, is my self-constituted mission," said the reverend gentleman.

"Then," said Rhapsody, "I am ready to make all necessary concessions--a clean breast of it, you may say. I am in a false position--struggling against public opinion--false pride--falsely, and yet honestly, working my way through the world. I am no more nor less, nominally, than _Jones, the boot-maker_. Now," continued Rhapsody, "if a false purpose covers not a false heart also, I can yet be happy in the affections of Miss Somebody, and she in mine. For those who can battle as we have, against the common chances of indigence, upright and alone in our integrity, may surely yet win greater rewards by mutual consolation and support, our fortunes joined."

"I have not been mistaken, then, sir," said the reverend gentleman, "in your character, if I was in your occupation; and you may rely upon my friendly service in an amicable and definite arrangement of this very delicate matter."

* * * * *

When General Harrison took the "chair of state," our friend Rhapsody was reinstated in his place, occupied years before, and by fortuitous circumstances he got still higher--an appointment of trust connected with a handsome salary; so that Jones, the boot-maker, was enabled to re-enter the Somebodies into the gay and fluctuating society at the national capital, from which they had been so unceremoniously driven by the death of the husband and father. Mrs. Somebody, that was, however, is now a much older and much wiser person, the wife of our ministerial friend, who vouches the difficulty he had in overcoming Mrs. Somebody's repugnance to leather--and for sundry quibbles--yea, strong arguments against any blood of hers ever uniting with the fates and fortunes of a boot-maker; with what _propriety_, her experience has long since taught her. Alice is the happiest of women, mother of many fine children, the wife of a man poverty could not corrupt, if public opinion forced him to mask the means that gave him bread. Rhapsody is no longer a politician, or office-holder, but engaged in lucrative pursuits that yield comfort and position in society. To relate the trials, courtship and marriage of "Jones, the boot-maker," is one of our friend Rhapsody's standing jokes, to friends at the fireside and dinner table; but that such a safe and happy tableau would again befall parties so circumstanced, is a very material question; and the moral of our story, being rather complex, though very definite, we leave to society, and you, reader, to determine.

A Distinction with a Difference.

A gentleman from "out 'town," came into Redding & Co.'s on Christmas day, and leaning thoughtfully over the counter, says he to Prescott, "Got any Psalms here?"

"N-n-no," says Prescott, reflectingly, "but," he continued, after a moment's pause, and handing down a copy of Hood, "here's plenty of old Joe's!"

The out-of-town gentleman gave a glance at _the pictures_, and with a countenance indicative of having been tasting a crab-apple--left!

Pills and Persimmons.

I remember an old "Joke" told me by my father, of an old, and rather addle-headed gentleman, who some fifty years ago did business in New Castle, Delaware, and having occasion to send out to England for hardware, wrote his order, and as he was about to despatch it to the captain of the ship, lying in the stream, ready for sea, a neighbor got him to add an order for some kegs of nails, and in the hurry, the old man dashed off his _P. S._, but upon attempting to read the whole order over, he couldn't make head or tail of it.

"Well," says he, in a flurry, "I'll send it, just as it is; they are better scholars in England than I am--_they'll make it out_."

Strange enough to say, when the hardware came over, among the rest of the stuff were the so many kegs of nails, but upon opening one of these kegs, it was full, or nearly so, of American quarter dollars. The old man roared out in a [word missing].

"Haw! haw! haw! Well, blast me," says he, "if _they_ ain't scholars, fust-rate scholars, in England; _it's worth while sending 'em bad manuscript_."

A still more comical mistake is related to us, of a commercial transaction that actually took place within a year or two, between parties severally situated in Boston and the city of San Francisco, California. As we consider the whole transaction rather _rich_, we transcribe it for the diversion it may furnish.

Simmons, the "Oak Hall" man, of Boston, had set up a shop in San Francisco, to which he was almost daily sending all sorts of cheap clothing, and making, on the same, more money than a horse could pull; and in his package, he was in the habit of sending articles for friends, &c. A gentleman recently gone to the gold country, from Boston, acquainted with Simmons, and Simmons with him, found, upon looking around San Francisco, that his own business, _lawing_, wasn't worth two cents, as many of his craft were turning their attention to matters more useful to the human family--digging cellars, wheeling baggage, driving teams, &c. So lawyer Bunker _turned_ his attention from Blackstone, Chitty, Coke on Littleton, and those fellows of deep-red, blue-black law, to the manufacture of quack nostrums. Bunker found that the great appetite we Yankees have for quack medicines, pills and powders, suffered no diminution in the gold country; on the contrary, the appetite became rather sharpened for those luxuries, and Bunker found that a New York butcher, with whom he became acquainted, was absolutely making his fortune, by the manufacture of dough pills, spiced with coriander, and a slight tincture of calomel.

"Egad!" says Bunker, "_I'll_ go into medicine. I'll write to a friend in Boston, to send me _out_ a few medicine and receipt books, and a lot of pulverized liquorice, quinine, &c., with a pill machine, and I guess I'll be after my New York butchering friend in a double brace of shakes."

Now, it may be premised that as Bunker was a lawyer, he wrote a first-rate hand; in fact, he might have bragged of being able to equal, if not surpass, the "Hon." Rufus Choate, whose scrawl more resembles the scratchings of a poor half-drowned in an ink-saucer spider, meandering over foolscap, than quill-driving, and as unintelligible as the marks of a tea-box or hieroglyphics on the sarcophagus of ye ancient Egyptians! In short, Counsellor Bunker's manuscript was awful; a few of his most intimate friends, only, pretending to have the hang of it at all; and to one of these friends, Bunker directs his message, transmits it by Uncle Sam's mail _poche_, and in fever heat he awaits the return of the precious combustibles that were to make his fortune. In course of time, Bunker's friends receive the order, but, alas! it was all Greek to them; they cyphered in vain, to make out any thing in the letters except _persimmons_.

"What the deuce," says one of Bunker's friends, "does Joe want with persimmons?"

They went at it again, and again, but there was no mistaking the final sentence, "_send, without delay, persimmons_."

"Persimmons?" said one.

"Persimmons?" echoed another.

"Persimmons? What in thunder does Joe Bunker want with _persimmons_?" responded a third.

"Persimmons!" all three chimed.

"Persimmons," says one, "are not used in law proceedings, anyhow."

"Nor in gospel, even, provided Joe has got into that," responded another.

"Persimmons are not medicinal."

"They are not chemical."

"Persimmons are no part, or ingredient, in art, science, law, or religion; now, for what does Joe Bunker, counsellor at law, want us to forward, without delay, _persimmons_?"

Well, they couldn't tell; in vain they reasoned. Joe's letter was very brief, strictly to the point, and that point was--_persimmons!_ In the first place, it is not everybody that knows exactly what persimmons are, where they come from, and what they are good for. One of Bunker's friends had lived in the South; he knew persimmons; it occurred to him that possums, and some human beings, especially the colored pop'lation, were the only critters particularly fond of the fruit. Webster was consulted, to see what light he cast upon the matter: he informed them that "_Persimmon_ was a tree, and its fruit, a species of _Diospyros_, a native of the States south of New York. Fruit like a plum, and when not ripe, very hard and astringent (rather so), but when ripe, luscious and highly nutritious."

"Well, there," said one of Bunker's friends, "I'll bet Joe's sick; persimmons have been prescribed for his cure, and the sooner we send the persimmons the better!"

"Persimmons! Now I come to think of it," says the man who had a faint idea of what persimmons were, "they make beer, first-rate beer of persimmons, in the South, and it's my opinion, that Joe Bunker is going into persimmon beer business; as you say, he _may be_ sick--persimmon beer may be the California cure-all; in either case, let us forward the persimmons without delay!"

Now persimmons never ripen until _touched_ pretty smartly with Jack Frost. This was in September; persimmons were mostly full grown, but not ripe. A large keg of them was ordered from Jersey, and as fast as Adams & Co.'s great Express to San Francisco could take them out, _the persimmons went!_

Counsellor Bunker, relying upon his friends to forward without delay the tools and remedial agents to make his fortune in the pill business, went to work, got him an office, changed his name, and added an M. D. to it, had a sign painted, advertised his shop, and informed the public that on such a time he would open, and guarantee to cure all ills, from lumbago to liver complaint, from toothache to lock-jaw, spring fever to yaller janders, and in his enthusiasm, he sat down with a ream of paper, to count up the profits, and calculate the time it would take to get his pile of gold dust and start for home.

The day arrived that Doctor Phlebotonizem was to open, and he found customers began to _call_, and sure enough, in comes a large keg, direct through from the States, to his address; the freight bill on it was pretty considerable, but Joe out and paid it, rejoicing to think that now he was all right, and that if the proprietors of gold dust and the lumbago, or any of the various ills set forth in his catalogue of human woes, had spare change, he would soon find them out. He closed his door, opened his cask--

"What in the name of everlasting sin and misery is this?" was the first _burst_, upon feeling the fine saw dust, and seeing, nicely packed, the green and purple, round and glossy--he couldn't tell what.

"Pills? No, good gracious, they can't be _pills_--smell queer--some mistake--can't be any mistake--my name on the cask--(tastes one of the 'article')--O! by thunder! (tastes again)--I'm blasted, they (tastes again) are, by Jove, _persimmons!_ Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ho! ho! he! he! ha! ha! ha!"

And the ex-counsellor of modern law roared until he grew livid in the face.

"I see--ha! ha! I see; they have misunderstood every line I wrote them, except the last, and that--ha! ha! ha!--for my direction to send out my stuff _per Simmons_, they send me PERSIMMONS! Ha! ha! ha! ho! ho!"

But, after enjoying the _fun_ of the matter, ex-counsellor Bunker discovered the thing was nothing to laugh at; _patients_ were at the door--if he did not soon prescribe for their cases, his now numerous creditors would prescribe for him! What was to be done? Very dull and prosy people often become enterprising and imaginative, to a wonderful degree, when put to their trumps. This philosophical fact applied to ex-counsellor Bunker's case exactly. He was there to better his fortune, and he felt bound to do it, persimmons or no persimmons. It occurred to him, as those infernal persimmons had cost him something, they ought to _bring in_ something. By the aid of starch and sugar, Doctor Phlebotonizem converted some hundreds of the smallest persimmons into _pills_--sugar-coated pills--warranted to cure about all the ills flesh was heir to, at $2 each dose. One generally constituted a dose for a full-grown person, and as the patient left with a countenance much "puckered up," and rarely returned, the _pseudo_ M. D. concluded there was virtue in persimmon pills, and so, after disposing of his stock to first-rate advantage, the doctor paid off his bills; tired of the pill trade, he _vamosed the ranche_ with about funds enough to reach home, and explain to his friends the difference between _per_ Simmons and _persimmons!_

Mysteries and Miseries of the Life of a City Editor.