Chapter IV: Part 4

Oh, how home and its comforts floated in my mind's eye; how I envied--not for the first time either--the unthankful inmates of even a second-rate boarding-house! A negro cabin, a shed, dog kennel, and a hoe cake, had charms, in my thoughts, just then, enough to exalt them into fit themes for the poets and painters. Having trudged along, at least three miles, in one direction, I struck a large _mot_, that jutted out into the prairie. Here I concluded it was best to hang up for the night. I was soaking wet--hungry and wolfish enough. My utter desperation induced me to work for an hour with some percussion caps, powder, and a piece of greased tow linen, to get a blaze of fire, Ingins or no Ingins. I began to wish I was a Camanche myself, or that the red devils would surround me, give me one bite and a drink, and I'd die happy. All of a sudden, I got sight of a blaze! Yes, a real fire loomed up in the distance! It was Mat and his deer, in luck, doing well, while I was cold as Caucasus, and hollow as a flute. I riz, stretched my stiff limbs, and struck a bee line for the light. After wading, stumbling, and tramping, until my weary legs would bear me no longer, I had the mortification to see the fire at as great a distance as when I first started. This about knocked me. I concluded to give up right in my tracks, and let myself be wet down into _papier mache_ by the descending elements. Blessed was he that invented sleep, says Sancho Panza, but he was a better workman that invented _spunk_. All of a sudden I plucked up my spunk, and by a sort of martial command, ordered my limbs to duty, and marched straight for the fire in the weary distance. A steady and toilsome perseverance over brake and bush, mud, ravine, grass and water, at length brought me near the fire. And then, suspicion arose, if I fell upon a Mexican or Indian camp, the evils and perils of the night would turn up in the morning with a human barbecue, and these impressions were nearly sufficient inducement for me to go no further. It might be my friend Mat's fire, and it might not be: it wasn't very likely he would dare to raise a fire, and the more I debated, the worse complexion things bore. Involuntarily, however, I edged on up towards the fire, which was going down apparently. Coming to a _bayou_, I reconnoitered some time. All was quiet, save the pattering of the rain in the grass, and on the scattering lofty trees. I stood still and absorbed, watching the dying fire, for an hour or two. I was within half a mile of it; the intense darkness that usually precedes day had passed, and a murky, rainy morning was dawning. Cheerless, fatigued, and hungry beyond all mental supervision or fear, I marched point blank up to the fire, and there lay--not a tribe of Mexicans or Camanches, but my comrade Mat, fast asleep, under the lee of a huge dead and fallen cotton-wood, alongside of the fire, warm, dry, and comfortable as a bug in a rug!

I gave one shout, that would have riz the scalp lock of any red skin within ten miles, and Mat started upon his feet and snatched his "Yeager" from under the log quicker than death.

"Ho-o-o-ld yer hoss, stranger," I yelled, "I'm only going to eat ye!"

Mat and I fraternized, quick and strong. A piece of his fawn was jerked and roasted in a giffy. After gormandizing about five pounds, and getting a few whiffs at Mat's old stone pipe, I took his nest under the log, and slept a few hours sound as a pig of lead.

Waked up, prime--stowed away a few more pounds of the fawn, and then we started for camp. Living and faring in this manner, for from three to twelve months, may give you some idea of the training the heroes of San Jacinto had.

Roosting Out.

In 1837, after the capture of Santa Anna, by General Samuel Houston and his little Spartan band, which event settled the war, and something like tranquillity being restored to Texas, several of us adventurers formed a small hunting party, and took to the woods, in a circuitous tour up and across the Sabine, and so into the United States, homeward bound.

There were seven men, two black boys, belonging to Dr. Clenen, one of our "voyageurs," and eleven horses and mules, in the party; and with a tolerable fair camp equipage, plenty of ammunition, one or two "old campaigners" and three monstrous clever dogs, it was naturally supposed we should have a pleasant time. The first five days were cold, being early Spring, wet, and not _very_ interesting; but as all of the party had seen some service, and not expecting the comforts and delicacies of civilization, they were all the better prepared to take things as they came, and by the smooth handle. The idea was to travel slow, and reach Jonesboro' or Red River, or keep on the Arkansas, and strike near Fort Smith, in twenty or thirty days. We left Houston in the morning, passed Montgomery, and kept on W. by N. between the Rio Brasos and Trinity River, the first five days, then stood off north for the head of the Sabine.

Game was very sparse, and rather shy, but falling in with some wild turkeys, and a bee tree, we laid by two days and lived like fighting cocks. The turkeys were picked off the tall trees, as they roosted after night, by rifle shots, and no game I ever fed on can exceed the rich flavor of a well-roasted, fat wild turkey. The bee tree was a crowder--a large, hollow cyprus, about sixty feet high, straight as a barber pole, and nearly seven feet in diameter at the base, and full three feet through at the first branch, forty feet up. This must have been the hive of many and many a swarm, for years past; the tree was cut down, and contained from one to three hundred gallons of honey and comb! Nor are such bee trees scarce about the head of the Sabine, Red River, &c. Bears are very fond of honey. The weather then being much improved, it was suggested that the camp should be moved a few miles off, and leave the bee tree and its great surplus contents, to the bears; and if they did come about, we should come back and have a few pops at them. The plan was feasible, and all agreed; so, removing a few gallons of the translucent delicacy, the camp was struck, and, following an old trail a few miles, we found a delightful site for recamping under some large oaks on a creek, a tributary of the Sabine river.

Some of the "boys," as each styled the others, during the day had found "a deer lick," about three miles above the camp, and to vary the _viands_ a little, it was proposed that three of the boys should go up after dark, lay about, and see if a shot could be had at some of the visitors of "the lick."

One of the old heads, and by-the-way we called him "old traps," from the fact of his always being so ready to explain the manner and uses of all sorts of traps, and the inexhaustible adventures he had with them in the course of twenty years' experience in the far west.

Well, "old traps," Dr. C., and myself, were the deputed committee, that night, to attend to the cases of the deer. Soon after dark we put out, and in the course of a couple of hours, after some floundering in a muddy "bottom" and through hazel brush, or chaparral, the "lick" was found, and positions taken for raking the victims. "Old traps" took a lodge in a clump of bushes. Dr. C. and I squatted on a dead tree, with a few bushes around it, and in a particularly dark spot, from the fact of some very heavy timber with wide-spreading tops standing around and nearly over us.

The ability of keeping still in a disagreeable situation, for a long time, is most desirable and necessary in the character of a hunter;--some men have a faculty for holding a fishing-rod hours at a time over a fishless tide, with wondrous ardor; and I have known men to watch deer, bear, and other game, in one position, for ten or twenty hours. Sauntering up and down in the dark, with wind and rain, and a musket in your arms for company, is not pleasant pastime; but my patience revolted at the idea of squatting on the wet log, all cramped up, three or four hours, and no deer making their appearance; Doctor and I made up our minds to arouse "old traps," and patter back to the camp. Just as the resolution was about to be put in action, two deer, fine antlered customers, made their appearance about three hundred yards from us, out on a small plain, where their sprightly forms could just be made out as they leisurely stepped along. Getting near "old traps," he soon convinced us that _his_ eye was still open, although we had concluded he was fast asleep. The sharp, whip-like crack of "old traps'" rifle brought down one of the deer, and the other, in bounds of thirty or forty feet at a spring, whisked nearly over us, and the Doctor and I fired at the flying deer as he came; neither shot took effect, and off he sped.

"Hurrah! for the old boy!" shouted the Doctor, as we all bustled up to where the deer lay kicking and plunging in his death throes. "By Jove, 'traps,' you've put a ball clean through his head!"

"Yes, sir," said traps; "I ollers fix game that way, myself."

"Except when you fix them with the traps, eh?" said I.

"'Zactly," said traps. "But now, boys," he continued loading up his rifle, "now let's snatch off the creature's hide, quarter it, and travel back to the camp, for we ain't gwoine to have any more deer to-night."

This was soon accomplished. Trap seized the hind quarters and hide, and travelled; Doctor and I brought up the rear with the rest of the meat and fat.

To avoid the muddy "bottom," in going back, we concluded to take a little round-about way, and relieved one another by taking "spells" at carrying the rifles and the meat. We jogged along, chatting away, for some time, when it occurred to us that we were getting very near the camp, or ought to be, for we had walked long and fast enough.

Doctor was trudging on ahead with the meat; I was behind some twenty yards with both rifles; we were passing through some thin timber which skirted a little prairie, out on which we could see quite distinctly; Doctor made a sudden halt--

"Hollo! by Jove, what's that?"

"What? eh? where?" said I, bustling up to the Doctor, who made free to drop the meat, wheeled about, snatched his rifle out of my fists and _broke!_

"A grizzly bear coming, by thunder!"

Upon that _hint_ there were two gentlemen seen hurrying themselves _somewhat_, I reckon, on the back track. Doctor was what you might call a fast trotter, but when he broke into a full gallop the odds against me were dreadful! I was fairly distanced, and when perfectly blowed out stopped to pull the briars out of my torn trowsers, scratched face and dishevelled locks, listen to the enemy, and ascertain where the Doctor had got to. No sound broke the reigning stillness, save the sonorous "coo-hoot" of an owl. My rifle was empty, and a search satisfied me that my caps were not to be found. My own cap had also disappeared in the fright, and I was in a bad way for defence, and completely at a dead loss as to the bearings of the camp.

"Well," thinks I, "it's no particular use crying over spilt milk--it's no use to move when there is no idea existing of bettering one's self, so here I'll _roost_ until daylight, unless Doctor comes back to hunt me up!" I judged it was not far from 2 o'clock, A. M., and believed it possible that our venison might only whet a grizzly bear's appetite to follow up the pursuit and gormandize me!--A proper site for a _roost_ was the next matter of importance, and a scrubby oak with a thick top, close by, offered an inviting elevation to lodge.

A long, long time seemed the coming day; and the sharp air of its approach, and heavy dew, made "perching" in a crotch very fatiguing "pastime."

When light began to dawn, sliding down I took an observation that convinced me, according to Indian signs, that Doctor and I had gone South too far to hit the camp, and, to the best of my reckoning, the old bee tree was not far out of my way, and that I now struck for.

About noon, and a lovely day it was, I discovered the bee tree, made a dinner on honey, which was scattered about considerably, giving evidence of its having been visited by our rugged Russian friends.

And now, feeling anxious to see human faces, and not linger about a spot where troublesome customers might abound, I made tracks for the camp, which was reached about sundown, and where I found, to my regret, the Doctor had not come in yet.

"Old Traps" had returned all safe enough, and had been prophesying "the boys" were lost, and would not soon be found again. However, the old fellow put away his deer skin, which he had been cleaning, &c., to give me a feed of the deer, a few remnants yet remaining, and from my exercise and fasting, never was a rude meal more luxurious. Two of the party, with one of the black boys, and a mule, had been out since noon in quest of us, and about midnight they returned with the Doctor, who congratulated me on what he had estimated as an escape. So did I. We all concluded _it was a_ DEER _hunt!_ Though we "had a time" at the bee tree, next night, that made us about square.

Rather Twangy.

Three Irishmen, green as the Isle that per-duced 'em, but full of sin, and fond of the crater, broke into a country store down in Maine, one night last week, and after striking a light, they _lit_ upon a large demijohn, having the suspicious look of a whiskey holder. One held the light, while another held up the _demi_ to his mouth, and took a small taster.

"Arrah, what a twang! An' it's what they call Shemaky, I'm thinkin'!" says the fellow, screwing his face into all manner of puckers.

"It's the very stuff, thin, for me, so hould the light, and I'll take a swig at 'im," says Paddy number two. "_Agh!_" says he, putting down the demijohn in haste, "it's rale bhrandy--_agh-h!_"

"Branthy? Thin it's meself as'll have a wee bit uv a swig at 'em," and Paddy number three took hold, and down he rushed a good slew of it!

"Murther and turf! It's every divil ov us are pizened--o-o-och! Murther-r-r!" and he raised such a hullaballoo, that the neighbors were awakened. They came rushing in, and arrested Paddy number three. The others fled, with their bellies full of washing fluid! The poor fellow had drank nearly a pint; being possessed with a gutta percha stomach, he stood the infliction without kicking the bucket, but he was bleached, in two days--white as a bolt of cotton cloth!

Passing Around the Fodder!

A DINNER SKETCH.

A few weeks ago, during a passage from Gotham to Boston, on the "_Empire State_," one of the most elegant and swift steamers that ever man's ingenuity put upon the waters, I met a well-known joker from the Quaker city, on his first trip "down East." After mutually examining and eulogising the external appearance and internal arrangements of the "Empire," winding up our investigation, of course, with a _look_ into a small corner cupboard in the barber's office, where a superb _smile_--as _is_ a smile--can be usually enjoyed by the _nobbish_ investment of a York shilling; soon after passing through "Hell Gate"--gliding by the beautiful villas, chateaux, and almost princely palaces of the business men of the great city of New York, we were soon out upon the broad, deep Sound, a glorious place for steam-boating. Soon after, the bells announced "supper ready"--a general stampede into the spacious cabin took place, and though the tables strung along forty rods on each side of the great cabin, not over half the crowd got seats upon this interesting occasion. I was _about_ with my friend--in _time_, stuck our legs under the mahogany, and gazed upon the open prospect for a supper superb enough in all its details to tempt a jolly old friar from his devotions. We got along very nicely. An old chap who sat above us some seats, and whose rotund developments gave any ordinary observer reason to suppose his appetite as unquenchable as the Maelstrom, kept reaching about, and when tempting vessels were too remote, he'd bawl "right eout" for them.

"Halloo! I say you, Mister there, just hand along that saas; give us a chance, will ye, at that; notion on't, what d'ye call that stuff?"

"This?" says one, passing along a dish.

"Pshaw, no, t'other there."

"Oh! ah! yes, _this_," says my facetious friend.

"Well, that ain't it, but no odds; fetch it along!" and down we sent the biggest dish of meat in our neighborhood.

"Now," says I, "my boy, I'll show you a 'dodge.' We'll see how it works."

Filling a plate full to the brim, with all and each of the various _heavy_ courses in our vicinity, I very politely passed it over to my next neighbor with--

"Please to pass that up, sir?"

"Umph, eh?" says the gentleman, taking hold of the plate very gingerly; "pass it _up_?"

"Aye, yes, if you please," says I.

By this time he had fairly got the loaded plate in his fists, and began to look about him where to pass the plate _to_. Nobody in particular seemed on the watch for a _spare_ plate. The gent looked back at me, but I was "cutting away" and watching from the extreme corner of my left eye the victim and his charge, while I pressed hard upon the corn pile of my friend's foot under the table.

At length, the victim thought he saw some one up the table waiting for the plate, and quickly he whispered to his next neighbor--

"Please, sir, to-to-a, _just pass this plate up!_"

The man took the plate, and being more of a practical operator than his neighbor, gave the plate over to _his_ next neighbor, with--

"Pass this plate up to that gentleman, if you please," dodging his head towards an old gent in specs, who sat near the head of the table, grinning a ghastly smile over the field of good things.

"It's _going!_"

"_What?_" says my friend.

"The plate; it's going the rounds; just you keep quiet, you'll see a good thing."

The plate, at length, got to the head of the table. It was given to the old gentleman in specs; he looked over the top of his specs very deliberately at the "fodder," then back at the thin, pale, student-looking youth who handed it to him, then up and down the table. A raw-boned, gaunt and hollow-looking disciple caught the eye of the old gent; he must be the man who wanted the "load." His lips quacked as if in the act of--"pass this plate, sir,"--to his next neighbor; he was too far off for us to _hear_ his discourse. Well, the plate came booming along down the opposite side; the tall man declined it and gave it over to his next neighbor, who seemed a little tempted to take hold of the invoice, but just then it occurred to him, probably, that he was keeping _somebody_ (!) out of his grub, so he quickly turned to his neighbor and passed the plate. One or two more moves brought the plate within our range, and there it liked to have _stuck_, for a fussy old Englishman, in whom politeness did not stick out very prominently, grunted--

"I don't want it, sir."

"Well, but, sir, please _pass it_," says the last victim, beseechingly holding out the plate.

"Pass it? Here, mister, 's your plate," says Bull, at length reluctantly seizing on the plate, and rushing it on to his next neighbor, who started--

"Not mine, sir."

"Not yours! Who does it belong to? Pass it down to somebody."

Off went the plate again. Several ladies turned up their pretty eyes and noses while the gents _passed it_ by them.

"Why, if there ain't that plate a going the rounds, that you gave me!" says my next neighbor, to whom I had first given the "currency."

"That plate? Oh, yes, so it is; well," says I, with feigned astonishment, "this is the first time I ever saw a good supper so universally discarded!"

The plate was off again. It reached the foot of the table. An elderly lady looked up, looked around, removed a large sweet potato from the pile--then passed it along. An old salty-looking captain, just then took a vacant seat, and the plate reached him just in the nick of time. He looked voracious--

"Ah," said he, with a savage growl, "that's your sort; thunder and oakum, I'm as peckish as a shark, and here's the _duff for me!_"

That ended the peregrinations of the plate, and I and my friend--_yelled right out!_

A Hint to Soyer.

Magrundy says, in his work on _Grub_, that a Frenchman will "frigazee" a pair of old boots and make a respectable soup out of an ancient chapeau; but our friend Perriwinkle affirms that the French ain't "nowhere," after a feat he saw in the kitchen arrangement of a "cheap boarding house" in the North End:--the landlady made a chowder out of an old broom mixed with sinders, and after all the boarders had dined upon it scrumptiously, the remains made broth for the whole family, next day, besides plenty of fragments left for a poor family! That landlady is bound--_to make Rome howl!_

The Leg of Mutton.

I'm going to state to you the remarkable adventures of a very remarkable man, who went to market to get a leg of mutton for his Sunday dinner. I have heard, or read somewhere or other, almost similar stories; whether they were real or imaginary, I am unable to say; but I can vouch for the authenticity of my story, for I know the hero well.

In the year 1812, it will be recollected that we had some military disputes with England, which elicited some pretty tall fights by land and sea, and the land we live in was considerably excited upon the subject, and patriotism rose to many degrees above blood heat. Philadelphia, about that time, like all other cities, I suppose, was the scene of drum-beating, marching and counter-marching, and volunteering of the patriotic people.

The President sent forth his proclamations, the governors of the respective States reiterated them, and a large portion of our brave republicans were soon in or marching to the battle field. There lived and wrought at his trade, carpentering, in the city of Philadelphia, about that time, a very tall, slim man, named Houp; Peter Houp, that was his name. He was a very steady, upright, and honest man, married, had a small, comfortable family, and to all intents and purposes, settled down for life. How deceptive, how unstable, how uncertain is man, to say nothing of the more frail portion of the creation--woman! Peter Houp one fair morning took his basket on his arm, and off he went to get a leg of mutton and trimmings for his next Sunday's dinner. Beyond the object of research, Peter never dreamed of extending his travels for that day, certain. A leg of mutton is not an indifferent article, well cooked, a matter somewhat different to amateur cooks; and as good legs of mutton as can be found on this side of the big pond, can be found almost any Saturday morning in the Pennsylvania market wagons, which congregate along Second street, for a mile or two in a string. Peter could have secured his leg and brought it home in an hour or two at most.

But hours passed, noon came, and night followed it, and in the course of time, the morrow, the joyous Sunday, for which the _leg of mutton_ was to be brought and prepared, and offered up, a sacrifice to the household gods and grateful appetites, came, but neither the leg of mutton, nor the man Peter, husband and father Houp, darkened the doors of the carpenter's humble domicil, that day, the next or the next! I cannot, of course, realize half the agony or tortures of suspense that must have preyed upon that wife's heart and brain, that must have haunted her feverish dreams at night, and her aching mind by day. When grim death strikes a blow, whenever so near and dear a friend is levelled, cold, breathless, dead--we see, we know there is the end! Grief has its season, the bitterest of woe then calms, subsides, or ceases; but _lost_--which hope prevents mourning as dead, and whose death-like absence almost precludes the idea that they live, engenders in the soul of true affection, a gloomy, torturing and desponding sorrow, more agonizing than the sting actual death leaves behind. I have endeavored to depict what must have been, what were the feelings of Peter Houp's wife. She mourned and grieved, and still hoped on, though months and years passed away without imparting the slightest clue to the unfortunate fate of her husband. Her three children, two boys and a girl, grew up; ten, eleven, twelve years passed away, with no tidings of the lost man having reached his family; but they still lived with a kind of despairing hope that the husband and father would yet _come home_, and so he did.

Let us see what became of Peter Houp, the carpenter. As he strolled along with his basket under his arm, on the eventful morning he sought the leg of mutton, he met a platoon of men dressed up in uniform, muskets on their shoulders, colors flying, drums beating, and a mob of hurrahers following and shouting for the volunteers. Yes, it was a company of volunteers, just about shipping off for the South, to join the "Old Zack" of that day, General Jackson. Peter Houp saw in the ranks of the volunteers several of his old _chums_; he spoke to them, walked along with the men of Mars, got inspired--patriotic--_drunk_. Two days after that eventful Saturday, on which the quiet, honest, and industrious carpenter left his wife and children full of hope and happiness, he found himself in blue breeches, roundabout, and black cap, on board a brig--bound for New Orleans. A volunteer for the war! It was too late to repent then; the brig was ploughing her way through the foaming billows, and in a few weeks she arrived at Mobile, as she could not reach New Orleans, the British under General Packenham being off the Balize. So the volunteers were landed at Mobile, and hurried on over land to the devoted (or was to be) Crescent city. Peter Houp was not only a good man, liable as all men are to make a false step once in life, but a brave one. Having gone so far, and made a step so hard to retrace, Peter's cool reason got bothered; he poured the spirits down to keep his spirits up, as the saying goes, and abandoned himself to fate. Caring neither for life nor death, he was found behind the cotton bags, which he had assisted in getting down from the city to the battle ground, piled up, and now ready to defend his country while life lasted. Peter fought well, being a man not unlike the brave Old Hickory himself, tall, firm, and resolute-looking. He attracted General Jackson's attention during the battle, and afterwards was personally complimented for his skill and courage by the victorious Commander-in-chief. Every body knows the history of the battle of New Orleans--I need not relate it. After the victory, the soldiers were allowed considerable license, and they made New Orleans a scene of revel and dissipation, as all cities are likely to represent when near a victorious army. Peter Houp was on a "regular bender," a "big tare," a long spree--and for one so unlike any thing of the kind, he went it with a _perfect looseness_.

A rich citizen's house was robbed--burglariously entered and robbed; and Peter Houp, the staid, plain Philadelphia carpenter, who would not have bartered his reputation for all the ingots of the Incas, while in his sober senses, was arrested as one of the burglars, and the imputation, false or true, caused him to spend seven years in a penitentiary. O, what an awful probation of sorrow and mental agony were those seven long years! But they passed over, and Peter Houp was again free, not a worse man, fortunately, but a much wiser one! He had not seen or heard a word of those so long dearly cherished, and cruelly deserted--his family--for eight years, and his heart yearned towards them so strongly that, pennyless, pale and care-worn as he was, he would have started immediately for home, but being a good carpenter, and wages high, he concluded to go to work, while he patiently awaited a reply of his abandoned family to his long and penitent written letter. Weeks, months, and a year passed, and no reply came, though another letter was dispatched, for fear of the miscarriage of the first; (and both letters did miscarry, as the wife never received them.) Peter gave himself up as a lost man, his family lost or scattered, and nothing but death could end his detailed wretchedness. But still, as fortune would have it, he never again sought refuge from his sorrows in the poisoned chalice, the rum glass; not he. Peter toiled, saved his money, and at the end of four years found himself in the possession of a snug little sum of hard cash, and a fully established good name. But all of this time he had heard not a syllable of his home; and all of a sudden, one fine day in early spring, he took passage in a ship, arrived in Philadelphia; and in a few rods from the wharf, upon which he landed, he met an old neighbor. The astonishment of the latter seemed wondrous; he burst out--

"My God! is this Peter Houp, come from his grave?"

"No," said Peter, in his slow, dry way, "I'm from New Orleans."

Peter soon learned that his wife and children yet lived in the same place, and long mourned him as forever gone. Peter Houp felt any thing but merry, but he was determined to have his joke and a merry meeting. In an hour or two Peter Houp, the long lost wanderer, stood in his own door.

"Well, Nancy, _here is thy leg of mutton!_" and a fine one too he had.

The most excellent woman was alone. She was of Quaker origin; sober and stoical as her husband, she regarded him wistfully as he stood in the door, for a long time; at last she spoke--

"Well, Peter, thee's been gone a _long time for it_."

The next moment found them locked in each other's arms; overtasked nature could stand no more, and they both cried like children.

The carpenter has once held offices of public trust, and lives yet, I believe, an old and highly respected citizen of "Brotherly Love."

A Chapter on Misers.

We all love, worship and adore that everlasting deity--_money_. The poor feel its want, the rich know its power. Virtue falls before its corrupting and seductive influence. Honor is tainted by it. Pride, pomp and power, are but the creatures of money, and which corrupt hearts and enslaved souls wield to the great annoyance--yea, curse of mankind in general.

It is well, that, though we are all fond of money, not over one in a thousand, prove miserable misers, and go on to amass dollar upon dollar, until the shining heaps of garnered gold and silver become a god, and a faith, that the rich wretch worships with the tenacious devotion of the most frenzied fanatic. In the accumulation of a competency, against the odds and chances of advanced life, a man may be pardoned for a degree of economical prudence; but for parsimonious meanness, there is certainly no excuse. I have heard my father speak of an old miserly fellow, who owned a great many blocks of buildings in Philadelphia, as well as many excellent farms around there, and who, though rich as a Jew (worth $200,000), was so despicably and scandalously mean, as to go through the markets and beg bones of the butchers, to make himself and family soup for their dinners! He resorted to a score of similar humiliating "dodges," whereby to prolong his miserable existence, and add dime and dollar to his already bursting coffers.

At length, Death knocked at his door. The debt was one the poor wretch would fain have gotten a little more time on, but the Court of Death brooks no delay--there is no cunning devise of learned counsel, no writs of error, by which even a miserable miser, or voluptuous millionaire, can gain a moment's delay when death issues his summons. The miser was called for, and he knew his time had come. He sent for the undertaker, he bargained for his burial--

"They say I'm rich! it's a lie, sir--I'm poor, miserably poor. I want but three carriages. My children may want a dozen--I say but _three_; put that down. A very plain coffin; pine, stained will do, and no ornaments, hark ye. A cheap grave. I would be buried on one of my farms, but then the coach-drivers would charge so much to carry me out! Now, what will you ask for the job?"

"About thirty dollars, sir," said the almost horrified undertaker.

"Thirty dollars! why, do you want to rob me? Say fifteen dollars--give me a receipt--_and I'll pay you the cash down!_"

Poor wretch! by the time he had uttered this, his soul had flown to its resting-place in another world.

In the upper part of Boston, on what is called "the Neck," there lived, some years ago, a wealthy old man, who resorted to sundry curious methods to live without cost to himself. His house--one of the handsomest mansions in the "South End," in its day--stood near the road over which the gardeners, in times past, used to go to market, with their loads of vegetables, two days of each week. Old Gripes would be up before day, and on the lookout for these wagons.

"Halloo! what have you got there?" says the miser to the countryman.

"Well, daddy, a little of all sorts; potatoes, cabbages, turnips, parsnips, and so on. Won't you look at 'em?"

At this, the old miser would begin to fumble over the vegetables, pocket a potato, an onion, turnip, or--

"Ah, yes, they are good enough, but we poor creatures can't afford to pay such prices as you ask; no, no--we must wait until they come down." The old miser would sneak into the house with his stolen vegetables, and the farmer would drive on. Then back would come the miser, and lay in ambush for another load, and thus, in course of a few hours, he would raise enough vegetables to give his household a dinner. Another "dodge" of this artful old dodger, was to take all the coppers he got (and, of course, a poor creature like him handled a great many), and then go abroad among the stores and trade off six for a fourpence, and when he had four fourpences, get a quarter of a dollar for them, and thus in getting a dollar, he made four per cent., by several hours' disgusting meanness and labor.

But one day the old miser ran foul of a snag. A market-man had watched him for some time purloining his vegetables, and on the first of the year, sent in a bill of several dollars, for turnips, potatoes, parsnips, &c. The old miser, of course, refused to pay the bill, denying ever having had "the goods." But the countryman called, in _propria persona_, refreshed his memory, and added, that, if the bill was not footed on sight, he should prosecute him for _stealing!_ This made the old miser shake in his boots. He blustered for awhile; then reasoned the case; then plead poverty. But the purveyor in vegetables was not the man to be cabbaged in that way, and the old miser called him into his sitting-room, and ordered his son, a wild young scamp, to go up stairs and see if he could find five dollars in any of the drawers or boxes up there. The young man finally called out--

"Dad, which bag shall I take it out of, _the gold or silver_?"

"Odd zounds!" bawled the old man--"the boy wants to let on I've got bags of gold and silver!"

And so he had, many thousands of dollars in good gold and silver; he hobbled up stairs, got nine half dollars, and tried to get off fifty cents less than the countryman's bill; but the countryman was stubborn as a mule, and would not abate a farthing--so the old miser had to hobble up stairs and fetch down his fifty cents more, and the whole operation was like squeezing bear's grease from a pig's tail, or jerking out eye-teeth.

The miser never waylaid the market-men again; and not long after this, he got a spurious dollar put upon him in one of his "exchanging" operations, and that wound up his penny shaving.

Time passed--Death called upon the wretched man of ingots and money bags,--but while power remained to forbid it, the old miser refused to have a physician. When, to all appearance, his senses were gone, his friends drew the miser's pantaloons from under his pillow, where he had always insisted on their remaining during his sleeping hours, and his last illness--but as one of the attendants slowly removed the garment, the poor old man, with a convulsive effort--a galvanic-like grab--threw out his bony, cold hand, and seized his old pantaloons!

The miser clutched them with a dying grasp; words struggled in his throat; he could not utter them; his jaw fell--he was dead!

Much curiosity was manifested by the friends and relatives to know what could have caused the poor old man to cling to his time-worn pantaloons; but the mystery was soon revealed--for upon examination of the linings of the waistbands and watch-fob, over $30,000 in bank notes were there concealed!

The Lord's pardon and human sympathy be with all such misguided and wretched slaves of--money, say we.

Dog Day.

I used to like dogs--a puppy love that I got bravely over, since once upon a time, when a Dutch _bottier_, in the city of Charleston, S. C., put an end to my poor _Sue_,--the prettiest and most devoted female bull terrier specimen of the canine race you ever did see, I guess. My _Sue_ got into the wrong pew, one morning; the crout-eating cordwainer and she had a dispute--he, the bullet-headed ball of wax, ups with his revolver, and--I was dogless! I don't think dogs a very profitable investment, and every man weak enough to keep a dog in a city, ought to pay for the luxury handsomely--to the city authorities. Some people have a great weakness for dogs. Some fancy gentlemen seem to think it the very apex of highcockalorumdom to have the skeleton of a greyhound and highly polished collar--following them through crowded thorough-fares. Some young ladies, especially those of doubtful ages, delight in caressing lumps of white, cotton-looking dumpy dogs and toting them around, to the disgust of the lookers-on--with all the fondness and blind infatuation of a mamma with her first born, bran new baby. Wherever you see any quantity of white and black _loafers_--Philadelphia, for instance, you'll see rafts of ugly and wretched looking curs. Boz says poverty and oysters have a great affinity; in this country, for oysters read _dogs_. Who has not, that ever travelled over this remarkable country, had occasion to be down on dogs? Who that has ever lain awake, for hours at a stretch, listening to a blasted cur, not worth to any body the powder that would blow him up--but has felt a desire to advocate the dog-law, so judiciously practised in all well-regulated cities? Who that ever had a sneaking villanous cur slip up behind and _nip_ out a patch of your trowsers, boot top and calf--the size of an oyster, but has felt for the pistol, knife or club, and sworn eternal enmity to the whole canine race? Who that ever had a big dog jump upon your Russia-ducks and patent leathers--just as he had come out of a mud-puddle, but has nearly forfeited his title to Christianity, by cursing aloud in his grief--like a trooper? Well, I have, for one of a thousand.

The fact of the business is, with precious few exceptions, dogs are a nuisance, whatever Col. Bill Porter of the "Spirit," and his thousand and one dog-fancying and inquiring friends, may think to the contrary; and the man that will invest fifty real dollars in a dog-skin, has got a tender place in his head, not healed up as it ought to be.

While "putting up," t'other day, at the Irving House, New York, I heard a good dog story that will bear repeating, I think. A sporting gent from the country, stopping at the Irving, wanted a dog, a good dog, not particular whether it was a spaniel, hound, pointer, English terrier or Butcher's bull. So a friend advised him to put an advertisement in the Sun and Spirit of the Times, which he did, requesting the "fancy" to bring along the right sort of dog to the Irving House, room number --.

The advertisement appeared simultaneously in the two papers on Saturday. There were but few calls that day; but on Monday, the "Spirit" having been freely imbibed by its numerous readers over Sunday, the dog men were awake, and then began the scene. The occupant of room number --had scarcely got up, before a servant appeared with a man and a dog.

"Believe, sir, you advertised for a dog?" quoth he with the animal.

"Yes," was the response of the country fancy man, who, by the way, it must be premised, was rather green as to the quality and prices of fancy dogs.

"What kind of a dog do you call that?" he added.

"A greyhound, full blooded, sir."

"Full blooded?" says the country sportsman. "Well, he don't look as though he had much blood in him. He'd look better, wouldn't he, mister, if he was full bellied--looks as hollow as a flute!"

This remark, for a moment, rather staggered the dog man, who first looked at his dog and then at the critic. Choking down his dander, or disgust, says he:

"That's the best greyhound you ever saw, sir."

"Well, what do you ask for him?"

"Seventy-five dollars."

"What? Seventy-five dollars for that dog frame?"

"I guess you're a fool any way," says the dog man: "you don't know a hound from a tan yard cur, you jackass! Phe-e-wt! come along, Jerry!" and the man and dog disappeared.

The man with the hollow dog had not stepped out two minutes, before the servant appeared with two more dog merchants; both had their specimens along, and were invited to "step in."

"Ah! that's a dog!" ejaculated the country sportsman, the moment his eyes lit upon the massive proportions of a thundering edition of Mt. St. Bernard.

"That _is_ a dog, sir," was the emphatic response of the dog merchant.

"How much do you ask for that dog?" quoth the sportsman.

"Well," says the trader, patting his dog, "I thought of getting about fifty-five dollars for him, but I--"

"Stop," interrupted the country sportsman, "that's enough--he won't suit, no how; I can't go them figures on dogs." The man and dog left growling, and the next man and dog were brought up.

"Why, that's a queer dog, mister, ain't it? 'Tain't got no hair on it; why, where in blazes did you raise such a dog as that; been scalded, hain't it?" says the rural sportsman, examining the critter.

"Scalded?" echoed the dog man, looking no ways amiable at the speaker, "why didn't you never see a Chinese terrier, afore?"

"No, and if that's one, I don't care about seeing another. Why, he looks like a singed possum?"

"Well, you're a pooty looking country jake, you are, to advertise for a _dog_, and don't know Chiney terrier from a singed possum?"

Another rap at the door announced more dogs, and as the man opened it to get out with his singed possum, a genus who evidently "killed for Keyser," rushed in with a pair of the ugliest-looking--savage--snub-nosed, slaughter-house pups, "the fancy" might ever hope to look upon! As these meat-axish canines made a rush at the very boot tops of the country sportsman, he "shied off," pretty perceptibly.

"Are you de man advertised for de dogs, sa-a-ay? You needn't be afraid o' dem; come a'here, lay da-own, Balty--day's de dogs, mister, vot you read of!"

"Ain't they rather fierce?" asked the rural sportsman, eyeing the ugly brutes.

"Fierce? Better believe dey are--show 'em a f-f-ight, if you want to see 'em go in for de chances! You want to see der teeth?"

"No, I guess not," timidly responded the sportsman; "they are not exactly what I want," he continued.

"What," says Jakey, "don't want 'em? Why, look a'here, you don't go for to say dat you 'spect I'm agoin' for to fetch d-dogs clean down here, for nuthin', do you, sa-a-ay? Cos if you do, I'll jis drop off my duds and lam ye out o' yer boots!"

Jakey was just beginning to square, when his belligerent propositions were suddenly nipped in the bud, by the servant opening the door and ushering in more dogs; and no sooner did Jakey's pups see the new-comers, than they went in; a fight ensued--both of Jakey's pups lighting down on an able-bodied, big-bone sorrel dog, who appeared perfectly happy in the transaction, and having a tremendous jaw of his own, made the bones of the pups crack with the high pressure he gave them. Of course a dog fight is the _cue_ for a man fight, and in the wag of a dead lamb's tail, Jakey and the proprietor of the sorrel dog had a dispute. Jakey was attitudinizing _a la_ "the fancy," when the sorrel dog man--who, like his dog, was got up on a liberal scale of strength and proportions--walked right into Jakey's calculations, and whirled him in double flip-flaps on to the wash-stand of the rural sportsman's room! Our sporting friend viewed the various combatants more in bodily fear than otherwise, and was making a break for the door, to clear himself, when, to his horror and amazement, he found the entry beset by sundry men and boys, and any quantity of dogs--dogs of every hue, size, and description. At that moment the chawed-up pups of Jakey, and their equally used-up master, came a rushing down stairs--another fight ensued on the stairs between Jakey's dogs and some others, and then a stampede of dogs--mixing up of dogs--tangling of ropes and straps--cursing and hurraing, and such a time generally, as is far better imagined than described. The boarders hearing such a wild outcry--to say nothing of the yelps of dogs, came out of their various rooms, and retired as quickly, to escape the stray and confused dogs, that now were ki-yi-ing, yelping, and pitching all over the house! By judicious marshalling of the servants--broom-sticks, rolling-pins and canes, the dogs and their various proprietors were ejected, and order once more restored; the country sportsman seized his valise, paid his bills and "vamosed the ranche," and ever after it was incorporated in the rules of the Irving, that gentlemen are strictly prohibited from dealing in dogs while "putting up" in that house.

Amateur Gardening.

"I don't see what in sin's become of them dahlias I set out this Spring," said Tapehorn, a retired slop-shop merchant, to his wife, one morning a month ago, as he hunted in vain among the weeds and grass of his garden, to see where or when his two-dollars-a-piece dahlia roots were going to appear.

"Can't think what's the matter with 'em," he continued. "Goldblossom said they were the finest roots he ever sold--ought to be up and in bloom--two months ago."

"Oh, pa, I forgot to tell you," said Miss Tapehorn, "that our Patrick, one morning last Spring, was digging in the garden there, and he turned up some things that looked just like sweet potatoes; mother and I looked at them, and thought they were potatoes those Mackintoshes had left undug when they moved away last winter!"

"Well, you-a--" gasped Tapehorn.

"Well, pa, ma and I had them all dug up and cooked, and they were the meanest tasting things we ever knew, and we gave them all to the pigs!"

Tapehorn looked like a man in the last stages of disgust, and jamming his fists down into his pockets, he walked into the house, muttering:

"Tut, tut, tut!--thirty-two dollars and the finest lot of dahlias in the world--_gone to the pigs!_"

The Two Johns at the Tremont.

It is somewhat curious that more embarrassments, and queer _contre temps_ do not take place in the routine of human affairs, when we find so _many_ persons floating about of one and the same name. It must be shocking to be named John Brown, troublesome to be called John Thompson, but who can begin to conceive the horrors of that man's situation, who has at the baptismal font received the title of _John Smith_?

Now it only wants a slight accident, the most trivial occurrence of fate--the meeting of two or three persons of the same name, or of great similarity of name, to create the most singular and even ludicrous circumstances and tableaux. One of these affairs came off at the Tremont House, some time since. One Thomas Johns, a blue-nose Nova-Scotian--a man of "some pumpkins" and "persimmons" at home, doubtless, put up for a few days at the Tremont, and about the same time one John Thomas, a genuine son of John Bull, just over in one of the steamers, took up his quarters at the same respectable and worthy establishment.

Thomas Johns was a linen draper, sold silks, satinets, linen, and dimities, at his establishment in the Provinces, and was also a politician, and "went on" for the part of magistrate, occasionally. John Thomas was a retired wine-merchant, and, having netted a bulky fortune, he took it into his head to _travel_, and as naturally as he despised, and as contemptuously as he looked upon this poor, wild, unsophisticated country of ours, he nevertheless condescended to come and look at us.

Well, there they were, Thomas Johns, and John Thomas; one was "roomed" in the north wing, the other in the south wing. Thomas Johns went out and began reconnoitering among the Yankee shop-keepers. John Thomas, having a fortnight's pair of sea legs on, and full of bile and beer, laid up at his lodgings, and passed the first three days in "hazing around" the servants, and blaspheming American manners and customs.

Old John was quietly snoring off his bottle after a sumptuous Tremont dinner, when a repeated rap, rap, rap at his door aroused him.

"What are you--at?" growls John.

"It's ma, zur?" says one of the Milesian servants.

"Blast yer hies, what want yer?" again growls John.

"If ye plaze, zur, there's a young man below wishes to see you," says the servant.

"Ha, tell 'im to clear out!" John having predestinated the "young man," he gave an apoplectic snort, relapsed into his lethargy, and the servant whirled down into the rotunda, and informed the "young man" what the gentleman desired.

"He did, eh?" says the young man, who looked as if he might be a clerk in an importing house. The young man left, in something of a high dudgeon.

"What'r yer at now?" roared John Thomas, a second time, roused by the servant's rat-tat-too.

"It's a gentleman wants to see yez's, zur."

"Tell him to go to the d--!" and John snored again.

"Is John in?" asks the gentleman, as the servant returns.

"Mister _Thomas_ did yez mane, zur?"

"No, yes, it is (looking at his tablets) same thing, I suppose; Thomas Johns," says the gentleman.

"I belave it's right, zur," says the servant.

"Well, what did he say?"

"Faith, I think he's not in a good humor, betwane us, zur; he says yez may go to the divil!"