Chapter VI: Part 6

Triangle and Jingo went to escape the din and noise of dressing "the babies," &c.; and after the service was over, poor Triangle was taken aside by a tall, bony man, who reported himself in no very ceremonious manner as the proprietor of a flock of sheep scared to death, and one rare lamb killed--"by your dog!" Triangle owned to the soft impeachment, and "compromised" for a V.

Returned to Jingo Hall, another _coup d'etat_ all around the lot had broken out. Evangeline Roxana Matilda Triangle had disappeared. The baby, Georgiana Victorine Rosa Adelaide, had fallen from a swing in the grove and dislocated her wrist, and flattened her pretty nose quite to her pretty face. Baby was very ill, and from the groans issuing from Nora's attic, it was not _on-possible_ that she was sick as she could be. A general search took place for Evangeline Roxana Matilda, while Maj. Jingo mounted a horse and rode over to the village, to bring down a doctor for Georgiana Victorine Rosa Adelaide, "the baby," and--Nora Dougherty.

A glance at the Irish girl convinced poor _tried_ Triangle that she was a case--of small-pox.

Maj. Jingo returned, but without a medical adviser; the village Esculapius having gone off to the city. Things looked gloomy enough. Triangle felt "chawed up," and wished he had been roasted alive in the city before venturing upon such a trip. But he felt he had a duty to perform, and he determined to put it through.

"Major, I'm very sorry, but the fact is"----

"Never mind, never mind, my dear fellow--no trouble to us."

"But," chokingly continued poor Triangle, "but, Major, the fact is, I--a--you've got a large family"----

"Never mind, my dear boy; don't say any more about it."

"But to have the--a--the--small-pox"----

"What?" gasped the Major--"the--a"----

"Small-pox!" seriously enough responded Triangle.

"Small-pox! Who? Where?"

"Our Irish girl--up stairs--awful!"

"O, good Lord! Irish--up stairs--small-pox!" reiterated the really alarmed proprietor of Jingo Hall.

"I wouldn't have"--said Triangle.

"The small-pox in my house"--echoed Jingo.

"For all the blessed countries in the world!" passionately exclaimed Triangle.

"Heavens!" exclaimed the Major; "my wife has a greater dread of small-pox than yellow fever, or death itself!"

"What's to be done?" said poor Triangle.

"Remove the girl to an out-house, instantly!" said the Major, pacing up and down, in great _furore_.

"That's best, Major; go move her, at once."

"Me? Me move her, sir?" said Jingo.

"Why who will, Major?" responded Triangle.

"Who? Why, you, of course."

"Me?" exclaimed Triangle--"me? endanger my life, and the lives of all my family--me? No, sir, I'll--I'll--I'll be hanged if I do!"

"Blur a' nouns, zur!" bawled the Irish hostler, as he came trotting up to the front veranda, where Triangle and Jingo were discussing the transportation of small-pox--

"Blur a' nouns--the dog's loose!"

"Curse the dog!" said the Major.

"But, zur, it's raving mad, he is!"

"Mad! my dog?" cries Triangle.

"A mad dog, too!" exclaims the Major, in horror.

"O, too bad--horrible--wish I'd never seen"----

"Get your gun, quick--come on!" cried the Major.

"But, my dear Major, my gun's broke all to smash. O! that I had shot the blasted brute instead of breaking my gun!"

"Come on--never mind--seize a club, fork, or anything, and hunt around for the cursed dog. He'll bite some of our people, horses, or cattle." And away ran the Major, with a bit of stick about the size of a fence-rail. Paddy made himself scarce, and Triangle, in agony, flew around to hunt up his daughter, whom they found asleep in a summer-house.

Mrs. Major Jingo, when she heard that the Irish girl had introduced the small-pox on Jingo Hill, liked to have fainted away; but, conquering her weakness, she ordered the carriage, and bundled herself and four children into it, so full of terror and alarm that she never so much as said--"Take care of yourself, Mrs. Triangle!" Maj. Jingo returned, after a fruitless search for Triangle's mad dog, and just as he entered the hall, the Irish girl came rushing down stairs, crying--

"O! murther, murther! I'm dead as a door-nail, entirely, wid dese pains in my face. Be gorra! O, murther!"

One look at the swollen and truly frightful face of the girl put the Major to his _taps_; and stopping but a moment to tell Triangle to make out the best he could, he left.

Next morning, bag and baggage, the Triangles _vamosed_. The poor girl having recovered from her attack of the bees, which had led to the alarm of small-pox, looked quite respectable. Never did a party enjoy _home_ more completely than the Triangles after that. Triangle has a holy horror of trips to the country, and the Jingos are down on visitors from the city.

Jake Hinkle's Failings.

In the village of Washington, Fayette Co., Ohio, there was a transient sort of a personage, a kind of floating farmer, named Hinkle,--Jacob Hinkle,--commonly called _Old Jake Hinkle_. Jake was, originally, a Dutchman, a Pennsylvania, Lancaster County Dutchman; and that was about _as_ Dutch as Holland and Sour Krout could well make a human "critter." Well, Jake Hinkle owned, or had squatted on, a small patch of land, just beyond old Mother Rodger's "bottom," that is, about a mile east of the "Rattle Snake Fork" of Paint Creek, which, every thundering fool out West knows, empties itself into--"Big Paint," which finally rolls out into the Muskingum, and thence into the Ohio. Very well, having settled the geographical position of Jake Hinkle, let me go on to state what kind of a critter Jake was, and how it came about that he was pronounced dead, one cold morning, and how he came up to town and denied the assertion.

Jake Hinkle loved corn, lived on it, as most people do in the interior of Ohio and Kentucky; he loved _corn_, but loved corn whiskey more, and this love, many a time, brought Jake up to "the Court House" of Washington, through rain, hail and snow, to get a nipper, fill his jug, and go home. Now, in the West it is a custom more honored in the breach than in the observance, perhaps, for grog shops of the village to play all sorts of fantastic tricks upon old codgers who come up to town, or down to town, hitch their horses to the fence, and there let the "critters" stand, from 10 A. M. to 12 P. M., more or less, and longer. The most popular dodge is, to shave the horse's tail, turn it loose, and let it go home. Of course, _that_ horse is not soon seen in the village again, as a horse with a shored tail is about the meanest thing to look at, except a singed possum, or a dandy--you ever did see.

One very cold night, in January, '39, Jake Hinkle came down to the "Court House," hitched his horse to the Court Square fence, and made a straight bend for Sanders' "Grocery," and began to "wood up." Old Jake's tongue was a perfect bell-clapper, and when well oiled with corn juice, could rip into the high and low Dutch like a nor'easter into a field of broom corn. Jake talked and talked, and drank and talked, and about midnight, the cocks crowing, the stars winking and blinking, and the wind nipping and whistling around the grocery, Sanders notified Jake and others that he was going to shut up the concern, and the crowd must be "putting out." Jake made a break for his nag, but she was gone. "Why," says Jake, "she's broke der pridle and gone home, and by skure I shall walk,"--and off Jake put, through the cold and mud.

Next morning, when the Circleville stage came along between old Marm Rodger's "bottom," and the Rattle Snake Fork of Paint, the driver discovered poor old Jake laid out, stiff and cold as a wedge! Alas, poor old Jake! Gone! Quite a gloom hung over the "grocery;" Jake was an inoffensive, good old fellow, nobody denied that, and certain young "fellers" who had shaved the tail of Jake's mare the night previous, and set her loose, now felt sort of sorry for the deed. The editor of the "Argus of Freedom" came down to the "grocery," to get his morning "nip," heard the news, went back to his office, "set up" Jake's obituary notice, pitched in a few sorrowful phrases, and then put his paper to press; that afternoon, the whole edition, of some two hundred copies, were distributed around among the subscribers and "dead heads," and Jake Hinkle was pronounced stone dead--_pegged out!_

Two or three days afterwards, a man covered with mud and sweat, came rushing into Washington. He paused not, nor turned not right or left, until he found the office of the "Argus of Freedom," where he rushed in, and confronting the editor, he spluttered forth:--

"You der printer of dish paper,--der noosh paper?"

"Yes," says the 'responsible,' "I am the man," looking a little wild.

"Vell, bine de great Jehosaphat, what for you'n make me deat?"

"Me? Make you dead?" says the no little astonished editor.

"Yaas!" bawled old Jake, for it was he--"You'n tell de people I diet; _it's a lie!_ And do you neber do it again, and fool de peeples, _witout you git a written order from me!_"

That editor, ever afterwards, insisted on seeing the funeral before he recorded an obituary notice.

What's Going to Happen.

In fifty years the steam engine will be as old a notion, and as queer an invention, as the press Ben. Franklin worked is now. In fifty years, copper-plate, steel-plate, lithography, and other fine engravings, will be multiplied for a mere song, in a beautiful manner, by the now infantile art of _Daguerreotyping_. A passage to California will then be accomplished in twenty-four hours, by air carriages and electricity; or, perhaps, they'll go in buckets down Artesian holes, _clean through the earth!_ The arts of agriculture and horticulture will produce hams ready roasted, natural pies, baked with all sorts of _cookies_. About that time, a man may live forever at a cent a day, and sell for all he's worth at last--for soap fat!

The Washerwoman's Windfall.

Some years ago, there lived, dragged and toiled, in one of our "Middle States," or Southern cities, and old lady, named Landon, the widow of a lost sea captain; and as a dernier resort, occurring in many such cases, with a family of children to provide for,--the father and husband cut off from life and usefulness, leaving his family but a stone's cast from indigence,--the mother, to keep grim poverty from famishing her hearth and desolating her home, took in gentlemen's washing. Her eldest child, a boy of some twelve years old, was in the habit of visiting the largest hotels in the city, where he received the finer pieces of the gentlemen's apparel, and carried them to his mother. They were done up, and returned by the lad again.

It was in mid-winter, cold and dreary season for the poor--travel was slack, and few and far between were the poor widow's receipts from her drudgery.

"To-morrow," said the widow, as she sat musing by her small fire, "to-morrow is Saturday; I have not a stick of wood, pound of meal, nor dollar in the world, to provide food or warmth for my children over Sunday."

"But, mother," responded her 'main prop,' George, the eldest boy, "that gentleman who gave me the half dollar for going to the bank for him, last week,--you know him we washed for at the United States Hotel,--said he was to be here again to-morrow. I was to call for his clothes; so I will go, mother, to-morrow; maybe he will have another errand for me, or some money--he's got so much money in his trunk!"

"So, indeed, you said, good child; it's well you thought of it," said the poor woman.

Next day the lad called at the hotel, and sure enough, the strange gentleman had arrived again. He appeared somewhat bothered, but quickly gathering up some of his soiled clothes, gave them to the lad, and bade him tell his mother to wash and return them that evening by all means.

"Alas! that I cannot do," said the widow, as her son delivered the message. "My dear child, I have neither fire to dry them, nor money to procure the necessary fuel."

"Shall I take the clothes back again, mother, and tell the gentleman you can't dry them in time for him?"

"No, son. I must wash and dry them--we must have money to-day, or we'll freeze and starve--I must wash and dry these clothes," said the disconsolate widow, as she immediately went about the performance, while her son started to a neighboring coopering establishment, to get a basket of chips and shavings to make fire sufficient to dry and iron the clothes.

The clothes were duly tumbled into a great tub of water, and the poor woman began her manipulations. After a time, in handling a vest, the widow felt a knot of something in the breast pocket. She turned the pocket, and out fell a little mass of almost pulpy paper. She carefully unrolled the saturated bunch--she started--stared; the color from her wan cheeks went and came! Her two little children, observing the wild looks and strange actions of the mother, ran to her, screaming:

"Dear--dear mother! Mother, what's the matter?"

"Hush-h-h!" said she; "run, dear children--lock the door--lock the door! no, no, never mind. I a--I a--feel--dizzy!"

The alarmed children clung about the mother's knees in great affright, but the widow, regaining her composure, told them to sit down and play with their little toys, and not mind her. The cause of this sudden emotion was the unrolling of five five hundred dollar bills. They were very wet--nearly "used up," in fact--but still significant of vast, astounding import to the poor and friendless woman. She was amazed--honor and poverty were struggling in her breast. Her poverty cried out, "You are made up--rich--wash no more--fly!" But then the poor woman's honor, more powerful than the tempting wealth in her hands--triumphed! She laid the wet notes in a book, and again set about her washing.

About this time, quite a different scene was being enacted at the hotel. The gentleman so anxious that his clothes should be returned that evening, was no other than a famous counterfeiter and forger; and it happened, that the day previous, in a neighboring city, he had committed a forgery, drawn some four or five thousand dollars, had the greater part of the notes exchanged--and, with the exception of the five large bills hurriedly thrust into the vest pocket, and which he had sent to the poor laundress, there was little available evidence of the forgery in his possession. The widow's son had scarcely left the traveller's room with the clothes, when in came two policemen. The forger was not arrested as a principal, but certain barely suspicious circumstances had led to an investigation of him and his effects.

"You are our prisoner, sir!" said one of the policemen, as a servant opened the door to let them in.

"Me! What for?" was the quick response of the forger.

"That you will learn in due season; at present we wish to examine your person and effects."

The forger started--his heart beat with the rapidity of galvanic pulsation--the evidence of part of his villany was, as he supposed, among his effects. It was a moment of terror to him, but it passed like a flash, and in a gay and careless tone, he quickly replied:

"O, very well, gentlemen--go ahead. There are my keys and baggage--search, and look around. I have no idea what you are after--probably you'll find." In a low tone, he continued, to himself, "By heavens, how lucky! that boy has saved me!"

A considerable amount of money was found upon the forger, but none that could be identified, and after a long and wearisome private examination at the police court, he was discharged. He returned to the hotel, and shortly afterwards the lad made his appearance with the clothes, presenting him with a small roll of damp paper, saying:

"Here, sir, is something mother found in one of your pockets. She thinks it may be valuable to you, sir, and she is sorry it was wet."

The forger started, as though the little roll of wet money had been a serpent the lad was holding towards him.

"No, no, my little man; return it to your mother; tell her to dry it carefully, and that I will call and see her to-night, when she can return the little parcel."

George stood, his cap in one hand, and the other upon the door-knob; the man was much agitated, and perceiving the lad lingered, he thrust his hand into a carpet-bag, and hauling forth an old-fashioned wallet, he opened it, and taking thence a coin, put it in the hands of the lad and requested him to run home to his mother and deliver the message immediately. The lad did as he was ordered; and the poor washerwoman, the while, sat in her humble and ill-provided home, patiently awaiting the return of her boy, and fearing the anger of the gentleman at the hotel, when he should find his bank notes nearly, if not quite destroyed, would probably so indispose him towards the child that he would return empty-handed. But no; as the quick tread of the blithesome lad smote upon the widow's ear, she rushed to the door to receive him.

"Dear son, was the gentleman very angry?"

"Angry, dear mother? No! he was far from angry. He said you must dry these papers, and he would call to-night for them. And here, dear mother, he gave me a large piece of beautiful yellow money!" And the dutiful boy placed a golden doubloon in the trembling hand of the overjoyed mother. They were saved--the golden coin soon made the widow's domicil cheerful and happy.

It is almost needless to say, the five notes were not called for. They laid in the widow's bureau drawer two entire years, when a friend to the poor woman negotiated for their exchange into a dwelling-house and small store. And to this little incident does a certain elderly lady and her family owe their present prosperous and perfectly honorable position in the respectable society of the city of ----.

We don't Wonder at It.

In the city, we get so many new _kicks_, and put on so many new ways of living and doing up things, that no wonder the quiet and matter-of-fact country folks make awkward mistakes, and get mixed up with our conventionalities, and other doings. Dining at the American, last week, we sat _vis-a-vis_ with an old-fashioned agricultural gent, whose plate of mock turtle remained cooling for some time, while he was busy thinking over a silver four-pronged fork in his hand. At length a broad smile played over his manly features, as the novel-makers say, and he opened--

"Well, I'm jiggered!--ha! ha! _they've got to eating soup with split spoons, too!_"

Old Maguire and his Horse Bonny Doon.

Few animals possess the sagacity of the horse; passive and obedient, they are easily trained; bring them up the way you want them to go, and they'll go it! The horse in his old age does not forget the precepts of his youth. A very touching anecdote is told of a horse, in the cavalry service of the British army, during Napoleon's time. After the battle of Waterloo, when the combined force of Europe, through chicanery--not valor--defeated the greatest soldier the world ever saw, the British army was cut down, rank and file--Napoleon having promised to "be a good boy," and let 'em alone in future. Among the _cut offs_, was a troop of horse, and in this troop was an old veteran Bucephalus, who had stood and made charges, smelt fire and brimstone, faced phalanxes of bayonets, and clashed rough-shod over many bloody fields, besides Waterloo,--this old fellow was turned out to grass--cashiered. When the balance of his retained companions in saddle were leaving the town where the dismemberment had taken place, the old war horse was quietly grazing in a field; the troop passed--the bugler "sounded his horn," and in less than forty winks the old old horse was up, off, over fences, and in the front ranks! The tenacity with which he clung to his place in the column caused--says the historian--the officers and men to shed tears.

So much by way of a prelude. Now for old Maguire and his horse. Some years ago, in the interior of Ohio, there did live an old Irish jintleman, who not only had a fine estate, but likewise a saw-mill, and as fine an old black mare as ever the rays of a noonday's sun lit down upon. "Bonny Doon," Maguire's old mare, was a wonderful "critter;" she opened gates, let down bars, seized the pump handle by her teeth, and actually extracted water from the barn-yard well, with all the facility of a regular double-fisted _genus homo_. As a sly old joker, she had performed various tricks, such as nipping off the tails of sucking calves, catching chickens in her manger, and making various pieces of them, and kicking in the ribs of strange dogs and horned cattle. But to the eccentric habits and bacchanalian customs of her ex-military master, the old mare's dormant talents owed their "fetching out."

Old "Captain Maguire" had served with credit to himself and honor to the State, in her early struggles against the Indians and French Canadians. "Bonny Doon" was then in her "fille"-hood, and probably the most beautiful, as well as the most saucy jade, in the frontier army. Some twenty-five years had passed, and still the old captain and the mare were about, every-day cronies, for the old man no more thought of walking fifty rods, premeditatedly, than a South Carolina dandy would dream of the possibility of getting a glass of water without the immediate assistance of a son of Ethiopia! The old man had become possessed of wealth as well as years--was likewise the progenitor of a large and flourishing family, of the finest looking men and women in the State, and having gotten all things in this pleasant kind of train, he "laid off" in perfect lavender. The old captain's farm was about four miles from the large and flourishing town of Z----, and here the captain spent most of his time. Riding in on "Bonny Doon," in the morning, and hitching her to the sign-post, the poor beast would stand there--unless taken in by the ostler or others--until midnight, while the captain swigged whiskey, and smoked his pipe in the tavern. Yet "Bonny Doon's" affection for her old master did not flag; she waited patiently until he came--her mane and long tail would then switch about, while she'd "snigger eout" with gladness at his coming, and carry the old man through rain or snow, moonshine, or total darkness, over corduroy railroads, bridges, ravines, and last, though by no means least, over the narrow plank-way of Captain Maguire's saw-mill dam, while the waters on each side foamed and roared like a mountain torrent, and while the old man was either asleep or his hat so full of "bricks," that he was about as difficult to balance in the saddle as a sack of potatoes or Turk's Island salt! A better citizen, when sober, never paid taxes or trod sole leather in that State, than old Captain Maguire; but when he was "up the tree," a little sprung, or _tight_, as you may say, he was ugly enough, and chock full of wolf and brimstone! One day the captain was summoned to attend court, and testify in a case wherein his evidence was to give a lift to the suit of a neighbor, for whom the old man entertained a most lively disgust and very unchristianly hate. The old man, finding that he must go, went. He wet his whistle several times before starting, repeated the dose several times before he reached the Court House, and about the time he supposed he was wanted, he mounted "Bonny Doon," and started, full chisel, up the steps, through the entry, and into the crowded Court room, just in the nick of time.

"Robert Maguire! Robert Maguire! Robert----"

"Be the help o' Moses, _I'm here!_" roared the captain, in response to the crier.

And sure enough, he wasn't anywhere else! There he sat, stiff, and formal as a bronze statue of some renowned military chieftain, on a pot-metal war steed. Some laughed, others stepped out of the way of the mare's heels, judge and jury "riz," some of the oldest sinners in law practice looked quite "skeery," doubtless taking the old captain and his black charger for quite a different individual! It was some time before order and decorum were restored, as it was much easier for the judge to _order_ Captain Maguire to be arrested for his freak, than to do it, "Bonny Doon" not being disposed to let any man approach her head or heels. They shut the captain up, finally, for contempt of court, and fined him twenty dollars, but he escaped the disagreeable attitude of sustaining the suit of an enemy. At another time, the captain, being on a _time_, dashed into a meeting-house, running in at one door, and slap bang out at the other! This feat of Camanche horsemanship rather alarmed the whole congregation, and cost the captain five twenties! Riding into bar rooms and stores was a common performance of "Bonny Doon" and her master; and he had even gone so far as to run the mare up two entire flights of stairs of the principal hotel, dashing into a room where "a native" was shivering in bed with the fever and ague; but the noise and sudden appearance of a man and horse in such high latitudes effected a permanent and speedy cure; the fright like to have destroyed the sufferer's crop of hair, but the "a-gy" was skeered clean out of his emaciated body.

After a variety of adventures by flood and field, of hair-breadth 'scapes, and eccentricities of man and beast, they parted! "Bonny Doon" being about the only living spectator of her master's end. This tragic denouement came about one cold, stormy and snowy night, when few men, and as few beasts, would willingly or without pressing occasion, expose themselves to the pitiless storm. The old captain had been in town all day, with "Bonny Doon" hitched to the horse block, and being full of "distempering draughts," as Shakspeare modestly terms it, and malicious bravery in the midst of the great storm, late in the evening he mounted his half-starved and as near frozen mare, to go home.

"Better stay all night, captain," coaxed some friend.

"Hills are icy, and hollows filled with snow," suggested the landlord.

"I wouldn't ride out to your place to-night, captain, for a seat in Congress!" rejoined the first speaker.

"Ye wouldn't?" replied the captain. "And--and no wonder ye wouldn't, fer not a divil iv ye's iver had the horse as could carry ye's over me road th' night. Look at that! There's the baste can do it!--d'ye see that?" and as the old man, reeling in the saddle, jammed the rowels of his heavy spurs into the flanks of the mare, she nearly stood erect, and chafed her bits as fiery and mettled as though just from her oats and warm stable, and fifteen years kicked off.

"Boys," bawled the captain, "here's the ould mare that can thravel up a frozen mountain, slide down a greased rainbow, and carry ould Captain Maguire where the very ould divil himsilf couldn't vinture his dirty ould body. Hoo-o-oo-oop! I'm gone, boys!"

And he was off, gone, too; for the old man never reached the threshold of his domicil.--Next morning Captain Maguire was found in the mill-dam, entirely dead, with poor "Bonny Doon," nearly frozen, and scarcely able to walk or move, standing near him. But there she stood, upon the narrow icy way over the dam, and from appearances of the snow and planks of the little bridge, the faithful mare had pawed, scraped, and endeavored by various means to rescue her master. The manner of the catastrophe was evident; the old man had become sleepy, and frozen, and while the poor mare was feeling her way over the icy and snow-covered bridge, her master had slipped off into the frozen dam, and no doubt she would have dragged him out, could she have reached him. As it was, she stood a faithful sentinel over her lost master, and did not survive him long,--the cold and her evident sorrow ended the eventful life of "Bonny Doon."

Getting into the "Right Pew."

New Year's day is some considerable "pumpkins" in many parts of the United States. In the Western States, they have horse-racing, shooting-matches, quilting-frolics and grand hunting parties. In the South, the week beginning with Christmas and ending with New Year's day, is devoted to the largest liberty by the negroes, who have one grand and extensive _saturnalia_, visit their friends and relations, make love to the "gals" on neighboring plantations, spend the little change saved through the year, or now and then given to them by indulgent or generous masters, and in fact have a glorious good time! The holidays in New Orleans, and in Louisiana generally, is _a time_, and no mistake. The old French and Spanish families keep open house--dinners and suppers, music, song and dance. On New Year's eve, they decorate the graves of their friends with flowers. Lamps or lanterns are often required for this purpose, and as you pass the silent grave-yards, it is indeed a novel sight to see the many glimmering lights about the tombs of the departed. In most of the South-Western towns, the day is given up to fun and frolic. The Philadelphians have a great blow out. The streets are filled by holiday-looking people, children with toys and "mint sticks"--making the air resound with tin trumpets and penny whistles. The men and boys used to load up every thing in the shape of cannons, guns, pistols and hollow keys, and bang away from sunset until sunrise, keeping up a racket, din and uproar, equal to the bombardment of a citadel. The authorities stopped that, and now the civil young men kill the night and day in dancing, feasting, and attending the amusements, the multitude of rowdies passing their time in concocting and carrying on street fights and running with the engines.

But the New Yorkers _bang_ the whole of them; bear witness, O ye New Year's doings I have there seen. Visiting your friends, and your friends' friends. Open houses every where! "Drop in and take a glass of wine or bit of cake, if nothing else"--that's the word. Jeremy Diddlers flourish, marriageable daughters and interesting widows set their caps for the nice young men, the streets are noisy and full of confusion, the theatres and show-shops generally reap an elegant harvest, and the police reports of the second morning of the New Year swell monstrously! Of a New Year's adventure of an innocent young acquaintance of mine, I have a little story to tell.

Jeff. Jones was caught, at a New Year's dinner in New York, by the fascinating grace and _cap_-tivating head-gear of a certain young widow, who had a fine estate. Jeff. was what you might call a good boy; he had never seen much of creation, save that lying between Pokeepsie (his birth-place) and the Battery, Castle Garden and Bloomingdale. He was a clever fellow, fond of rational fun and amusement, kept "a set of books" for a mercantile firm in Maiden Lane, dressed well, kept good hours, and in all general respects, was--a nice young man. He went with a friend on a tour--New Year's day, to make calls. After a number of glasses and chunks of cake, feeling altogether beautiful, he found himself in the presence of a charming widow, and some two months afterwards, himself and the widow, a parson and a brace of male and female friends, Jeff. Jones, aged 28, took a partner for life, ergo he hung up his hat in the snug domicil of the flourishing widow, who became Mrs. Jeff. Jones, thereafter.

Poor Jeff., he found out that there was some truth in the venerable saying--all is not gold that glitters. The charming widow was seriously inclined to wear the inexpressibles; and poor Jeff., being of such a gentlemanly, good and easy disposition, scarcely made a struggle for his reserved rights. However, things, under such a state of affairs, grew no better fast, and as Jeff. Jones had neglected to go around and see the elephant before marriage, he came to the conclusion to see what was going on after that interesting ceremony. In short, Jeff. got to going out of nights--kept "bad hours," got blowed up in gentle strains at first, but which were promised to be enlarged if Mr. Jones did not mind his Ps. and Qs.

The third anniversary of Jeff. Jones's annexation to the widow was coming around. It was New Year's day in the morn; it brought rather sober reflections into Jeff.'s mind, on the head of which he thought he'd as soon as not--_get tight!_ This notion was pleasing, and dressing himself in his best clothes, Jones informed Mrs. J. that he wished to call on a few old friends, and would be home to dine and bring some friends with him!

"See that you do, then," said Mrs. J., "see that you do, that's all!" and she gave Mr. J. "a look" not at all like Miss Juliet's to Mr. Romeo--she _spoke_, and she said something.

However, Jones cleared himself; dinner hour arrived, if Jeff. Jones did not; Mrs. Jones smiled and chatted, and did the honors of the table with rare good grace, but where was Jones?

"He'll be poking in just as dinner is over, and the puddings cold, and company preparing to leave; then he'll catch a lecturing."

But don't fret your pretty self, Mrs. Jones--for dinner passed and tea-time came, but no Jones. Mrs. Jones began to get snappish, and by ten o'clock she had bitten all the ends from her taper fingers, besides dreadfully scolding the servants, all around. Mrs. J. finally retired--the clock had struck 12, and no Jones was to be seen; Mrs. J. was worried out; she could not sleep a blessed wink. She got up again, Jones might have met with some dreadful accident! She had not thought of that before! Perhaps at that very hour he was in the bottom of the Hudson, or in the deep cells of the Tombs! It was awful! Mrs. Jones dressed--the house was as still as a church-yard--she put on an old hood, and shawl to match, and noiselessly she crept down stairs; and by a passage out through the back area into a rear street. Mrs. Jones at the dead hour of night determined to seek some information of her husband. She had not gotten over a block, or block and a half from her mansion, when she spies two men coming along--wing and wing, merry as grigs, reeling to and fro, and singing in stentorian notes:

"A man that is (hic) married (hic) has lost every hope--
He's (hic) like a poor (hic) pig with his foot in a rope!
_O-o-o! dear! O-o-o! dear--cracky!_
A man that is (hic) married has so (hic) many ills--
He's like a (hic) poor fish with a (hic) hook in his gills!
_O-o-o-o! dear! O-o-o-o! dear--cracky!"_

In terror of these roaring bacchanalians, who were slowly approaching her, Mrs. Jones stood close in the doorway of a store; the revellers parted at the corner of the street, after many asseverations of eternal friendship, much noise and twattle. One of the carousers came lumbering towards Mrs. J., and she, in some alarm, left her hiding place and darted past the midnight brawler; and to her horror, the fellow made tracks after her as fast as a drunken man could travel, and that ain't slow; for almost any man inside of sixty can run, like blazes, when he is scarce able to stand upon his pins because of the quantity of bricks in his beaver. Mrs. Jones ran towards her dwelling, but before she could reach it, the ruffian at her heels clasped her! Just as she was about to give an awful scream, wake up all the neighbors and police ten miles around, she saw--_Jones!_ Jeff. Jones, her recreant husband!

It was a moment of awful import--the widow was equal to the crisis, however, and governed herself accordingly; proving the truth of some dead and gone philosopher who has left it in black and white, that the widows are always more than a _match_ for any man in Christendom!

Jones was loving drunk, a stage that terminates and is a near kin to total oblivion, in bacchanalian revels. Jones had not the remotest idea of where he was--time or persons; his tongue was thick, eyes dull, ideas monstrous foggy, and the few sentences he rather unintelligibly uttered, were highly spiced with--"my little (hic) angel, you (hic), you (hic) live 'bout (hic) here? Can't you ta-take me (hic) home with you, eh? My-my old woman (hic) would raise-rai-raise old scratch if I (hic), I went home to-to-night. (Hic) I'll, I'll go home (hic) in the morning, and (hic) tell her, ha! ha! he! (hic) tell her I've be-be-been to a fire!"

"O, the villain," said Mrs. J. to herself; "but I'll be revenged. Come, sir, go home with me--I'll take care of you. Come, sir, be careful; this way--in here."

"Where the (hic) deuce are--are you going down this (hic) cellar, eh?"

"All right, sir. Come, be careful! don't fall; rest on my arm--there, shut the door."

"Why (hic), ha-hang it a--all; get a light--that's a de--ar!"

"Yes, yes; wait a moment, I'll bring you a light."

Mrs. J. having gotten her game bagged, left it in the dark, and retired to her bed-chamber. Some of the servants, hearing a noise in the basement, got up, stuck their noses out of their rooms, and being convinced that a desperate scoundrel was in the house, raised the very old boy. Poor Jones, in his efforts to get out, run over pots, pans, and chairs, and through him and the servants, the police were alarmed! lights were raised, and Jones was arrested for a burglar!

Never was a man better pleased to find himself in his own domicil, than Jones! It was all Greek to the watchmen and servants; it was a mysterious matter to Jones for a full fortnight--but upon promise of ever after spending his new year's at home, Mrs. J. let the cat out of the bag. Jones surrendered!

A Circuitous Route.

We know several folks who have a way of beating round and boxing the compass, from A to Z, and back again, that fairly knocks us into smithereens. One of these characters came to us the other day, and in a most mysterious manner, with the utmost earnestness, solemnity, and _hocus pocus_, says he--

"Cap'n, (winking,) I wanted to see you--(two winks;) the fact of the business is, (wink, nod, and double wink,) I've wanted to see you, badly; you see, I-a--well, what I-a (two winks)--was about to remark (two nods and a short cough),--that is to say, it don't make much matter, if-a--(wink, wink, wink;) you see it was in this way, I-a--wanted to--a, to tell you that (dreadful lot of winks) I've been--not, to be sure, that it's an uncommon-a thing, (nod, cough, and forty winks,) but no doubt if I-a--the fact is--"

"Well, what in thunder and rosin is _the fact_, old boy?" says we.

"The fact is, cap'n, I'd a told you at once, but-a--I don't know why I--shouldn't tho', (wink on wink,) _have you got two shillings you won't want to use to-day_?"

We hadn't!

Major Blink's First Season at Saratoga.

"Ha, ha!" said Uncle Joe Blinks, as the subject of summer travel, a jaunt somewhere, was being discussed among the regular boarders in Mrs. Bamberry's spacious old-fashioned parlors; "Ha! ha! ha! ladies, did Mrs. Bamberry ever tell you of _my_ tour to Saratogy Springs?--last summer was two years."

"No," said several of us _neuter genders_ who had repeatedly heard all about it, but were desirous that those who had not been thus gratified, especially the ladies, and particularly a Miss Scarlatina, who was _dieting_ for a tour to the famed Springs--"tell us all about it, Major."

"Then," said the Major, with his favorite exclamation, "then, by the banks of Brandywine, if I don't tell you. You see, last summer was two years, I came to the conclusion, that I'd stop off business, altogether, brush up a little, and go forth a mite more in the world, and I went. A friend of mine, a married man, was going up north to Saratogy, with his wife and sister--a plaguy nice young woman, the sister was, too; well, I don't know how it was, exactly, but somehow or other, it came into my head, especially as my friend Padlock had asked me if I wouldn't like to go up to Saratogy--that I'd go, and I went. It was odd enough, to be sure," said Uncle Joe, taking a pinch of rappee from his tortoise-shell box--"very odd, in fact, but somehow or other, Mrs. Padlock, being in poor health, and her sister, a rather volatile and inexperienced young woman, you may say--"

"So that you had to _beau_ her along the way, Uncle Joe?" says several of the company.

"Well, yes; it was very odd, I don't know how it was, but somehow or other, I-a--I-a--"

"Out with it, Uncle Joe--own up; you cottoned to the young lady, gallant as possible, eh?" says the gents.

"Ha! ha! it's a very delicate thing, very delicate, I assure you, gentlemen, for an old bachelor to be on the slightest terms of intimacy with a young--"

"And beautiful!" echoed the company.

"Unexperienced," continued the Major.

"And unprotected," says the chorus.

"Volatile," added the Major.

"And marriageable young lady, like Miss--"

"Miss Catchem," said the Major.

"Catchem!" cried the gents.

"Catchem, that was her name; she was the daughter of a very respectable widow," continued the Major.

"A widow's daughter, eh?" said they all, now much interested in Uncle Joe's journey to Saratoga, and--but we won't anticipate.

"Of a very respectable widow, whose husband, I believe, was a--but no matter, they were of good family, and a--"

"Yes, yes, Uncle Joe," said the ladies, "no doubt of that; go on with your story; you paid attention to Miss Catchem; you grew familiar--you became mutually pleased with each other, and you finally--well, tell us how it all came out, Uncle Joe, do!" they cried.

"Bless me, ladies! You've quite got ahead of my story--altogether! Miss Catchem and I never spoke a word to each other in our lives," said the Major.

"Why, Uncle Joe!" cried the whole party.

"By banks of Brandywine, it's a fact."

"Well, we never!" cried all the ladies.

"Well, ladies, I don't suppose you ever did," Uncle Joe responds. "The fact is, Mrs. Padlock died suddenly the week Padlock spoke to me of going to Saratogy, and he married her sister, Miss Catchem, in course of a few weeks after, himself! I don't know how it was, but somehow or other, I thought it was all for the best; things might have turned out that I should have got tangled up with that girl, and a--"

"Been a married man, now, instead of a bachelor, Uncle Joe!" said the young ladies.

"It's odd; I don't know how it was, ladies; it might have been so, but it turned out just as I have stated."

"Well, well, Major," said an elderly person of the group; "go on; how about Saratoga?"

"I will," says Uncle Joe, again resorting to his rappee, "I will. You see Padlock didn't _go_, it was very odd; but somehow or other, I made up my mind to _go_, and I went. I calculated to be gone three or four weeks, and I concluded for once, at least, to loosen the strings of my purse, if I never did again; so I laid out to expend three dollars or so, each day, say eighty dollars for the trip; a good round sum, I assure you, to fritter away; but, by banks of Brandywine, I was determined to _do_ it, and I did. It was very odd, but the first person I met at New York was an old friend, a schoolmate of mine. I was glad to see him, and sorry enough to learn that he had failed in business--had a large family--poor--in distress. It was very odd, but somehow or other, we dined at the hotel together--had a bottle of Madeira, and I a--well, I loaned--yes, by banks of Brandywine, I gave the poor fellow a twenty dollar bill, shook hands and parted; yes, poor Billy Merrifellow, we never met again; he--he died soon after, in distress, his family broke up--scattered; it was very odd; poor fellow, he's gone;" and Uncle Joe again had recourse to his rappee, while a large tear hung in the corner of his full blue eye. Closing his box, and wiping his face with his _pongee_, the Major continued:

"Next morning I called for my bill. I was astonished to find that a couple of bottles of good wine, two extra meals, and something over one day's board, figured up the round sum of ten dollars. I was three days out, so far, and my pocket-book was lessened of half the funds intended for a month's expenses! By banks of Brandywine, thinks Major, my boy, this won't do; you must economize, or you shall be short of your reckonings before you are a week out of port. That morning at the steam-boat wharf I meets a young man very genteelly dressed; he looked in deep distress about something. It was very odd, I don't know how it was, but somehow or other, he came up to me and asked if I was going up the river, and I very civilly told him I was; then, he up and tells me he was a stranger in the city, had lost all his money by gambling, was in great distress--had nothing but a valuable watch--a present from his deceased father, a Virginia planter, and a great deal more. He begged me to buy the watch, when I refused at first, but finally he so importuned me, and offered the watch at a rate so apparently below its real value that I up and gave him forty dollars for it, thinking I might in part, indemnify my previous extravagance by this little bit of a trade. It was very odd; I don't know how it was, but somehow or other, upon my arrival at Saratogy, I found that watch wasn't worth the powder that would blow it up! I was imposed upon, cheated by a scoundrel! Here I was, four days from home, and my whole month's outfit nigh about gone. In the stage that took us from the boat to the Springs, rode a very respectable youngish-looking woman, with a very cross child in her arms; we had not rode far before I found the other passengers, all gentlemen, apparently much annoyed by the child; for my part I sympathized with the poor woman, got into a conversation with her--learned she was on her way to Saratogy to see her husband, who was engaged there as a builder. Upon arriving at Saratogy, the young woman requested me to hold her child--it was fast asleep--until she stepped over to a new building to inquire about her husband. I did so; she went away, and I never saw her from that to this!"

A loud and prolonged laugh from his auditors followed this _tableau_ in Uncle Joe's story. A little more rappee, and the Major proceeded:

"Well, it was very odd, I don't know how it was, but somehow or other I was left with the child, and a plaguy time had I of it; the town authorities refused to take charge of it, nobody else would; so by Brandywine, there I was; the people seemed to be suspicious of me--sniggered and went on as though I knew more about the woman and her child than I let on. In short, I had to father the child, and provide for it, and I did," said the Major, quite patriotically.

"Well, never mind, Uncle Joe," said Mrs. Bamberry; "that boy may pay you yet--pay you for all your trouble; he's growing nicely, and will make a fine man."

"So you really had to keep the child!" cried several.

"O yes," says the Major; "I was in for it; I got a nurse and had the youngster taken care of. The hotels were crowded, very uncomfortable, rooms wretched, small, damp, and dirty. The landlords were quite independent, and the servants the most impudent set of extorting varlets I ever encountered! To keep from starving, I did as others--bribed a waiter to keep my plate supplied. At night they had what they called 'hops!' in other words, dances, shaking the whole house, and raising such a noise and hullabaloo, with cracked horns, squeaky fiddles--bawling and yelling, that no sailor boarding house could be half so disturbant of the peace. By banks of Brandywine, I got enough of such _folderols_; at the end of the week I asked for my bill, augmented by some few sundries--it made my hair stand up. Now what do you suppose my bill was, for one week, board, lodging, servants' _bribes_ and sundries? I'll tell you," said the Major, "for you never could guess it--it was forty-one dollars, fifty cents. I took my _protege_, bag and baggage, and started for home. I was absent on this memorable tour to Saratogy just two weeks, and by banks of Brandywine, if the expense of that tour--not including the time _wasted_, vexation, bother, mortification of feelings, fuss, and rumpus--was but a fraction less than three hundred dollars! Four times the cost of my anticipated trip, lessened half the time, with fifty per cent. more humbug about it than I ever dreamed of!"

Miss Scarlatina agreed with the rest of the company, that it cost Uncle Joe Blinks more to go to Saratogy than it came to, and they all concluded--not to go there themselves, just then--any how!

Old Jack Ringbolt

Had been spinning old Mrs. Tartaremetic any quantity of salty yarns; she was quite surprised at Mr. Ringbolt's ups and downs, trials, travels and tribulations. Honest Jack (!) had assured the old dame that he had sailed over many and many cities, all under water, and whose roofs and chimneys, with the sign-boards on the stores, were still quite visible. He had seen Lot's wife, or the pillar of salt she finally was frozen into!

"And did you see that--Lot's wife?" asked the old lady.

"Yes, marm; but 'tain't there now--the cattle got afoul of the pillar of salt one day, and licked it all up!"

"Good gracious! Mr. Ringbolt!"

"Fact, marm; I see'd 'em at it, and tried to skeer 'em away."

"Well, Mr. Ringbolt, you've seen so much, and been around so, I'd think you would want to settle down, and take a wife!"

Who Killed Capt. Walker?

Few incidents of the campaign in Mexico seem so mixed up and indefinite as that relative to the taking of Huamantla, and the death of that noble and chivalric officer, Capt. Walker. In glancing over the papers of Major Mammond, of Georgia, which he designates the "Secondary Combats of the Mexican War," we observe that he has given an account of the engagement at Huamantla, and the fall of Walker. We believe the Major's account, compiled as it is from "the documents," to be in the main correct, but lacking incidental pith, and slightly erroneous in the grand _denouement_, in which our gallant friend--whose manly countenance even now stares us in the face, as if in life he "yet lived"--yielded up the balance of power on earth.

We have taken some pains, and a great deal of interest surely, in coming at the facts; and no time seems so proper as the present--several of the chivalric gentlemen of that day and occasion, being now around us--to give the story its veritable exhibition of true interest.

Capt. S. H. Walker was a Marylander, a young man of the truest possible heroism and gallantry. He entered upon the campaign with all the ardor and enterprise of a soldier devoted to the best interests of his country. He commanded a company of mounted men, whose bravery was only equalled by his own, and whose discipline and hardiness has been unsurpassed, if equalled, by any troops of the world. We shall skip over the thousand and one incidents of the line of action in which Walker, Lewis, and their brave companions in arms did gallant service, to come at the sanguinary and truly thrilling _denouement_.