Chapter VII: Part 7

Gen. Lane, after the landing and organization of his troops at Vera Cruz, with some 2500 men, started for Puebla, where it was understood that Col. Childs required reinforcement. Lane left Jalapa on the 1st of October, and hurried forward with Lally's command. At Perote, Lane learned that Santa Anna would throw himself upon his muscle, and give the advancing columns jessy at the pass of Pinal, and there was every prospect of a very tight time. Col. Wynkoop was in command at Perote; the men were anxious to be "in" at the fight in prospective, and Wynkoop obtained permission to join the General with four companies of the Pennsylvania Regiment; a small battery of the 3d Artillery, under command of Capt. Taylor, with Capts. Walker, of the Texan Rangers, and Lewis, of the Louisiana Cavalry. The column was now swelled to some 2800. They moved rapidly forward, and upon reaching Tamaris, Lane heard that the old fox was off--Santa Anna had gone to Huamantla. Lane determined to hunt him up with haste. The main force was left at Tamaris. Troops were forwarded--advanced by Walker's Rangers and Lewis's Cavalry--who approached to within sight, or nearly so, of Huamantla. The orders to Walker were to advance to the town, and if the Mexicans were in force, to wait for the Infantry to come up. Walker's command rated about 200 men. Upon reaching the outskirts of Huamantla, the Mexican Cavalry were seen dashing forward into the town, and the brave Walker ordered a pursuit.

Santa Anna was evidently in the town. Capt. Walker, says his gallant comrade Lewis, made up his mind to be the captor of the wily old chief. The fair prospect of accomplishing the deed so excited Walker, that danger and death were alike secondary considerations, and so the command charged into the town. Some 500 lancers met the charge, but with terrific impetuosity the Rangers and Cavalry dashed in among them, cutting them down right and left, and soon sent them flying in all directions! It was at this moment, says Capt. Lewis, that one of the most heroic acts of bravery was performed, unsurpassed, perhaps, by any act of personal daring during the whole war! A tremendous negro, a fine, manly fellow, named Dave, belonging to Capt. Walker, with whom he was brought up--boys together--being mounted, and armed with a heavy sabre, dashed forward down a narrow street, (up which, a detached body of lancers were striving to escape,) and throwing himself between three poised lances and the person of Dr. Lamar, one of the surgeons, who would have been most inevitably torn to atoms, Dave raised himself in his saddle, and with a yell, and one fell swoop, the heroic fellow "chopped down" a lancer, clean and clear to his saddle! Two lancers pierced Dave's body, and he fell from his horse, dead!

Charging up to the Plaza--the Mexicans flying--Capt. Walker dismounted, with some thirty of his men, and advanced up a flight of steps to force an entrance into a church or convent, where he supposed Santa Anna was hid away. The flying lancers were pursued by the Rangers, who, very injudiciously, of course, scattered themselves over the town.

Capt. Lewis, in the mean time, had found a large yard attached to a temporary garrison, in which were some sixty horses, equipped ready for immediate use, and which the Mexicans had, in their hurry to escape, left behind them! The irregular firing of the Rangers, in pursuit of the Mexicans, being deemed useless and unnecessary, Capt. Lewis left several of his men, among whom was "Country McCluskey," the noted pugilist, a volunteer in Capt. Lewis's company, to guard the horses, while he rode forward to the convent.

"Capt. Walker," said Lewis, "I deem it, sir, not only useless, but bad policy, to allow that firing by the men, around the town."

Capt. Walker immediately ordered the firing to cease, and being apprized of Capt. Lewis's discovery of the horses, &c., ordered him to bring up his command. Capt. Lewis wheeled his horse; some one fired close by, and Capt. Walker cried out--

"Who was that? I'll shoot down the next man who fires against my orders!"

At that moment three guns were fired from the convent--and simultaneously a cannon was fired down the street, from a party of Mexicans in the distance. Capt. Lewis faced about just in time to see Capt. Walker drop down upon the steps of the convent, as he emphatically expresses it,--

"Like a lump of lead, sir!"

The piece up the street was fired again. Capt. Lewis ordered the fallen, gallant Walker, to be placed upon the steps close to the wall. A shot from the piece alluded to striking off the stone and mortar, he ordered the doors to be forced, and Capt. Walker to be taken in, which was done. The bugle sounded, and in an instant a horde of lancers poured into the town, rushing down upon the Americans from every avenue! Capt. Lewis had wheeled about to collect his men, when he found McCluskey and others leading out "the pick" of the captured horses.

"Drop--drop the horses, you fool, and mount! Mount, sir, mount!"

They mounted fast enough; Lewis formed, and met the enemy in gallant style; and though there were ten, aye, twenty to one, possibly, he drove them back! To quote our friend, Major Hammond's words, "Lewis, of the Louisiana Cavalry, assumed command, struggled ably to preserve the guns (captured), and held his position fairly, until assistance arrived."

One hundred and fifty of the enemy fell, while of the Rangers and Cavalry some twenty-five were killed and wounded. They were engaged nearly an hour, and the bravery displayed by Walker, Lewis, and their men, was worthy of general admiration, and all honor.

Poor Walker! a ball struck him in the left shoulder, passed over his heart, and came out in his right vest pocket!

Thus fell the gallant leader of one of the most formidable war parties, of its numbers, known to history. Walker was a humane, impulsive man; a warm friend, a brave, gallant soldier. His dying words were directed to Capt. Lewis--to keep the town, and drive back the enemy; and that the chivalrous Captain did so, was well proven. Capt. Walker, and his heroic "boy" Dave, who fell unknown to his master, were buried together in the earth they so lately stood upon, in all the glory and heroism of men that were men!

Practical Philosophy

Skinflint and old Jack Ringbolt had a dispute on Long Wharf, a few days since, upon a religious _pint_. Jack argued the matter upon a _specie_ basis, and Skinflint took to "moral suasion." Jack went in for equal division of labor and money--all over the world.

"Suppose, now, John," says Skinflint, "we rich men _should_ share equal with the poor--their imprudence would soon throw all the wealth into our hands again!"

"Wall," says Jack, "s'pose it did! You'd only have to--_share all around again!_"

Borrowed finery; or, Killed off by a Ballet Girl.

Shakspeare has written--"let him that's robbed--not wanting what is stolen, not know it, _and he's not robbed at all!_" Now this fact often becomes very apparent, especially so in the case of Mrs. Pompaliner,--a lady of whom we have had occasion to speak before, the same who sent Mrs. Brown, the washerwomen, sundry boxes of perfume to mix in her _suds_, while washing the pyramids of dimity and things of Mrs. P. There never was a lady--no member of the sex, that ever suffered more, from dread of contagion, fear of dirt, and the contamination of other people, than Mrs. Pompaliner.

"Olivia," said she, one morning, to one of her waiting maids, for Mrs. Pompaliner kept three, alternating them upon the principle of varying her handkerchiefs, gloves and linen, as they--in her double-distilled refined idea of things, became soiled by use, from time to time. "Olivia, come here--Jessamine, you can leave:" she was so intent upon odor and nature's purest loveliness, that she either sought sweet-scented cognomened waiting-maids, or nick-named them up to the fanciful standard of her own.

"Olivia, here, take this handkerchief away, take the horrid thing away. I believe my soul somebody has touched it after it was ironed. Do take it away," and the poor victim of concentrated, double extract of human extravagance, almost fainted and fell back upon her lounge, in a fit of abhorrence at the idea of her _mouchoir_ being touched, tossed, or opened, after it entered her camphorated drawers in her highly-perfumed _boudoir_.

"Olivia!"

"Yes'm," was the response of the fine, ruddy, and wholesome looking maid.

"Olivia, put on your gloves."

"Yes'm."

"Go down to Mrs. Brown's," she faintly says--"tell her to come here this very day."

"Yes'm."

"Olivia!"

"Yes'm," replied the fine-eyed, real woman.

"Got your gloves on?"

"Yes'm."

"Well, take this key, go to my boudoir, in the fifth drawer of my _papier mache_ black bureau, you will find a case of handkerchiefs."

"Yes'm."

"Take out three, yes, four, close the case, lock the drawer, close the boudoir door, and bring down the handkerchiefs upon my rosewood tray. Do you comprehend, Olivia?"

"Yes'm," said the girl.

"But come here; let me see your hands. O, horror! such gloves! touch my handkerchiefs or bureau drawers with those horrid gloves! Poison me!" cries the terrified woman.

"Olivia," she again ejaculates, after a moment's pause, from overtasked nature!

"Yes'm," the blushing, tickled _blonde_ replies.

"Go call Vanilla, you are quite soiled now. I want a fresh servant, retire."

"Ah, Vanilla, girl, have you got your gloves on?"

"Yes'm," the yellow girl modestly answers.

"Then do go and bring me six handkerchiefs from my boudoir, in the fifth drawer of my black _papier mache_ bureau. Let me see your gloves, dear.

"Ah, Vanilla, you are to be depended upon; your gloves are clean--now run along, dear, for I'm suffering for a fresh, new, and untouched handkerchief.

"Ah, that's well. Now, Vanilla, go to Mrs. Brown's, my laundress--say that I wish her to come here, immediately."

"Yes'm," says the bright quadroon, and away she spins for the domicil of democratic Mrs. Brown, the laundress.

"Now what's up, I'd like to know?" quoth the old woman.

"Dunno, missus wants to see you--guess you better come," says Vanilla.

"Deuce take sich fussy people," says Mrs. Brown; "I wouldn't railly put up with all her dern'd nonsense, ef she wa'n't so poorly, so weak in her mind and body, and so good about paying for her work. No, I declare I wouldn't," said the strong-minded woman.

"Bring the creature up," said Mrs. Pompaliner, as one of her fresh attendants announced the washerwoman.

"Ah, you are here?"

"Yes," said the fat, hardy, and independent, if awkward, Mrs. Brown, as she stood in the august presence of Mrs. Pompaliner, and the gorgeous trappings of her own private drawing-room.

"Yes, I believe I am, ma'am!" says the she-democrat.

"Vanilla, tell Olivia to bring Jessamine here."

"Yes'm."

"Now Mrs. a--what is your name?"

"Brown, Dorcas Brown; my husband and I--"

"Never mind, that's sufficient, Mrs. a--Brown," said the reclining Mrs. Pompaliner. "I wish to know if anybody is permitted to touch or handle any of my wardrobe, my linen, handkerchiefs, hose, gloves, laces, etc., in your house?"

"Tetch 'em!" echoes the rotund laundress; "why of course we've got to tetch 'em, or how'd we get 'em ironed and put in your baskets, ma'am?"

"Do you pretend to say, Mrs. a--Brown--O dear! dear! I am afraid you have ruined all my clothes!"

"Ruined 'em?" quoth Mrs. Brown, coloring up, like a fresh and lively lobster immersed in a pot of highly caloric water.

"I want to know if the things ain't been done this week as well as I ever did 'em, could do 'em, or anybody could do 'em on this mighty yeath (earth), ma'am!"

"Come, come, don't get me flustered, woman," cries the poor, faint Mrs. Pompaliner. "Don't come here to worry me; answer me and go."

"So I can go, ma'am!" said Mrs. Brown, with a vigorous toss of her bullet head.

"Stop, will you understand me, Mrs.--a--"

"Brown, ma'am, Brown's my name. I ain't afeard to let anybody know it!" responded the spunky laundress.

The arrival of Olivia, who ushered in Jessamine, turned the current of affairs.

"Jessamine, your gloves on, dear?"

"Yes'm."

"Then go to my _boudoir_, open the rose-wood clothes case, bring down the skirts, a dozen or two of the _mouchoirs_, the laces and hose."

The girl departed, and soon returned with a ponderous paper box, laden with the articles required.

"Now," said Mrs. Pompaliner, "now, Brown, look at those articles; don't you see that they have been touched?"

"Tetched! lord-a-massy, ma'am, how'd you get 'em ironed, folded and brought home, ma'am, without tetching 'em?"

"Olivia, Vanilla, where are you? Jessamine, dear, bring me a fresh handkerchief, ignite a _pastile_, there's such an odor in the room. Do you _smell_, Mrs. a--Brown, that horrid lavender or rose, or, or,--do you smell it, Brown?"

"Lord-a-massy, ma'am," said the old woman of suds, "I ollers smell a dreadful smell here; them parfumeries o' yourn, I often tell my Augusty, I wonder them stinkin'--"

"O! O! dear!" cries Mrs. Pompaliner, going off "into a spell;" recovering a little, Mrs. Pompaliner proceeds to state that for some time past, she had been troubled with _a presentiment_, that her fine clothes had been tampered with after leaving the smoothing iron, and how fatal to her would be the fact of any mortal daring to use, in the remotest manner, any fresh garment or personal apparel of hers! Suspicion had been aroused, the articles before the parties were now diligently examined, when, lo! a spot, not unlike a slight smear of vermilion, was discovered upon a splendid handkerchief--it gave Mrs. P. an electric shock; but, O horror! the next thing turned up was a _spangle_, big as a half dime, upon one of Mrs. P.'s most superb skirts! This awful revelation, connected with the smell of vile lavender and worse patchouly, upon another piece of woman gear, threw Mrs. Pompaliner into spasms, between the motions of which she gasped:

"You have a daughter, Mrs. Brown?"

"Yes, I have."

"How old is she?"

"About seventeen, ma'am."

"And she a--?"

"Dances in the theatre, ma'am!"

The whole thing was out: the sacred garments of Mrs. P. had not only been _touched_ by sacrilegious hands, but had had an airing, and smelt the lamps of the play-house! Mrs. Pompaliner was so shocked, that four first-class physicians tended her for a whole season.

Mrs. Brown lost a profitable customer, and well walloped her ballet-nymph daughter Augusty, for attiring herself in the finery of her most possibly particular and sensitive customer! It was awful!

Legal Advice.

Old Ben. Franklin said it was his opinion that, between imprisonment and being at large in debt to your neighbor, there was no _difference_ worthy the name of it. Some people have a monstrous sight of courage in debt, more than they have out of it, while we have known some, who, though not afraid to stand fire or water, shook in their very boots--wilted right down, before the frown of a creditor! A man that can _dun_ to death, or stand a deadly _dun_, possesses talents no Christian need envy; for, next to Lucifer, we look upon the confirmed "diddler" and professional _dun_, for every ignoble trait in the character of mankind. A friend at our elbow has just possessed us of some facts so mirth-provoking, (to us, not to him,) that we jot them down for the amusement and information of suffering mankind and the rest of creation, who now and then get into a scrimmage with rogues, lawyers and law. And perhaps it may be as well to let the _indefatigable_ tell his own story:

"You see, Cutaway dealt with me, and though he knew I was dead set against _crediting_ anybody, he would insist, and did--get into my books. I let it run along until the amount reached sixty dollars, and Cutaway, instead of stopping off and paying me up, went in deeper! Getting in debt seemed to make him desperate, reckless! One day he came in when I was out; he and his wife look around, and, by George! they select a handsome tea-set, worth twenty dollars, and my fool clerk sends it home.

"'Tell him to _charge it!_' says Cutaway, to the boy who took the china home; and I did charge it.

"The upshot of the business was, I found out that Cutaway was a confirmed _diddler_; he got all he wanted, when and where he could, upon the 'charge it' principle, and had become so callous to duns, that his moral compunctions were as tough as sole leather--bullet-proof.

"I was vexed, I was _mad_, I determined to break one of my 'fixed principles,' and _go to law_; have my money, goods, or a row! I goes to a lawyer, states my case, gave him a fee and told him to go to work.

"Cutaway, of course, received a polite invitation to step up to Van Nickem's office and learn something to his advantage; and he attended. A few days afterwards I dropped in.

"'Your man's been here,' says Van Nickem, smilingly.

"'Has, eh? Well, what's he done?' said I.

"'O, he acknowledges the _debt_, says he thinks you are rather hurrying up the biscuits, and thinks you might have sent the bill to him instead of giving it to me for collection,' says the lawyer.

"'Send it to him!' says I. 'Why I sent it fifty times;--sent my clerk until he got ashamed of going, and my boy went so often that his boots got into such a way of _going_ to Cutaway's shop, that he had to change them with his brother, _when he was going anywhere else!_'

"'He appears to be a clever sort of a fellow,' said Van.

"'He _is_,' said I, 'the cleverest, most perfectly-at-home _diddler_ in town.'

"'Well,' said Van Nickem, 'Cutaway acknowledges the debt, says he's rather straightened just now, but if you'll give him a little more _time_, he'll fork up every cent; so if I were you, I'd wait a little and see.'

"Well, I did wait. I didn't want to appear more eager for law than a lawyer, so I waited--three months. At the end of that time, early one Saturday morning, in came Cutaway. 'Aha!' says I, 'you are going to _fork_ now, at last; it's well you come, for I'd been _down_ on you on Monday, bright and early!'"

"You didn't say that to him, did you?" we observed.

"O, bless you, _no_. I said _that_ to _myself_, but I met _him_ with a smile, and with a 'how d'ye do, Cutaway?' and in my excitement at the prospect of receiving the $80, which I then wanted the worst kind, I shook hands with him, asked how his family was, and got as familiar and jocular with him as though he was the most cherished friend I had in the world! Well, now what do you suppose was the result of that interview with Cutaway?"

"Paid you a portion, or all of your bill against him, we suppose," was our response.

"Not by a long shot; with the coolness of a pirate he asked me to credit him for a handsome wine-tray, a dozen cut goblets and glasses, and a pair of decanters; he expected some friends from New York that evening, was going to give them a 'set out' at his house, and one of the guests, in consideration of former favors rendered by him, was pledged--being a man of wealth--to loan him enough funds to pay his debts, and take up a mortgage on his residence."

"You laughed at his impudence, and kicked him out into the street?" said we.

"I hope I may be hung if I didn't let him have the goods, and he took them home with him, swearing by all that was good and bad, he would settle with me early the following Monday morning. I saw no more of _him_ for two weeks! I went to Van Nickem's, he laughed at me. The bill was now $100. I was raging. I told Van Nickem I'd have my money out of Cutaway, or I'd advertise him for a villain, swindler, and scoundrel."

"'He'd sue you for libel, and obtain damages,' said Van.

"'Then I'll horsewhip him, sir, within an inch of his life, in the open street!' said I, in a heat.

"'You might _rue_ that,' said Van. 'He'd sue you for an assault, and give you trouble and expense.'

"'Then I suppose I can do nothing, eh?--the _law_ being _made_ for the benefit of such villains!'

"'We will arrest him,' said Van.

"'Well, then what?' said I.

"'We will haul him up to the bull ring, we will have the money, attach his property, goods or chattels, or clap him in jail, sir!' said Van Nickem, with an air of determination.

"I felt relieved; the hope of putting the rascal in jail, I confess, was dearer to me than the $100. I told Van to go it, give the rascal jessy, and Van did; but after three weeks' vexatious litigation, Cutaway went to jail, swore out, and, to my mortification, I learned that he had been through that sort of process so often that, like the old woman's skinned eels, he was used to it, and rather liked the sensation than otherwise! Well, saddled with the costs, foiled, gouged, swindled, and laughed at, you may fancy my feelinks, as Yellow Plush remarks."

"So you lost the $100--got whipped, eh?" we remarked.

"No, _sir_," said our litigious friend. "I cornered him, I got old Cutaway in a tight place at last, and that's the pith of the transaction. Cutaway, having swindled and shaved about half the community with whom he _had_ any transactions,--got his affairs all fixed smooth and quiet, and with his family was off for California. I got wind of it,--Van Nickem and I had a conference.

"'We'll have him,' says Van. 'Find out what time he sails, where the vessel is, &c.; lay back until a few hours before the vessel is to cut loose, then go down, get the fellow ashore if you can, talk to him, soft soap him, ask him if he won't pay if he has luck in California, &c., and so on, and when you've got him a hundred yards from the vessel, knock him down, pummel him well; I'll have an officer ready to arrest both of you for breach of the peace; when you are brought up, I'll have a _charge_ made out against Cutaway for something or other, and if he don't fork out and clear, I'm mistaken,' said Van. I followed his advice to the letter; I pummelled Cutaway well; we were taken up and fined, and Cutaway was in a great hurry to say but little and get off. But Van and the _writ_ appeared. Cutaway looked streaked--he was alarmed. In two hours' time he disgorged not only my bill, but a bill of forty dollars costs! He then cut for the ship, the meanest looking white man you ever saw!"

If Mr. Cutaway don't take the _force_ of that moral, _salt_ won't save him.

Wonders of the Day.

The "firm" who save a hogshead of ink, annually, by not allowing their clerks and book-keepers to dot their i's or cross their t's, are now bargaining (with the old school gentlemen who split a knife that cost a fourpence, in skinning a flea for his hide and tallow!) for a two-pronged pen, which cuts short business letters and printed bill-heads, by enabling a clerk to write on both sides of the paper, two lines at a time. Great improvement on the old method, ain't it?

"Don't Know You, Sir!"

We shall never forget, and always feel proud of the fact, that we _knew_ so great an every-day _Plato_ as Davy Crockett. Had the old Colonel never uttered a better idea than that everlasting good motto--"Be sure you're right, then go ahead!" his wisdom would stand a pretty good wrestle with tide and time, before his standing, as a man of genius, would pass to oblivion--be washed out in Lethe's waters. We remember hearing Col. Crockett relate, during a "speech," a short time before he lost his life at the _Alamo_, in Texas--a little incident, of his being taken up in New Orleans, one night, by a _gen d'arme_--lugged to the calaboose, and kept there as an out-and-out "hard case," not being able to find any body, hardly, that knew him, and being totally unable to reconcile the chief of police to the fact that he _was_ the identical Davy Crockett, or any body else, above par! "If you want to find out your 'level,'--_ad valorem_, wake up some morning, noon or night--_where nobody knows you!_" said the Colonel, "and if you ever feel so essentially chawed up, _raw_, as I did in the calaboose, the Lord pity you!"

There was a "modern instance" of Colonel Crockett's "wise saw," in the case of a certain Philadelphia millionaire, who was in the habit of _carting_ himself out, in a very ancient and excessively shabby gig; which, in consequence of its utter ignorance of the stable-boy's brush, sponge or broom, and the hospitalities the old concern nightly offered the hens--was not exactly the kind of _equipage_ calculated to win attention or marked respect, for the owner and driver. The old millionaire, one day in early October, took it into his head to ride out and see the country. Taking an early start, the old gentleman, and his old bob-tailed, frost-bitten-looking horse, with that same old shabby gig, about dusk, found themselves under the swinging sign of a Pennsylvania Dutch tavern, in the neighborhood of Reading. As nobody bestirred themselves to see to the traveller, he put his very old-fashioned face and wig outside of the vehicle, and called--

"Hel-lo! hos-e-lair? Landlord?"

Leisurely stalking down the steps, the Dutch hostler advanced towards the queer and questionable travelling equipage.

"Vel, vot you vont, ah?"

"Vat sal I vant? I sal vant to put oup my hoss, vis-ze stab'l, viz two pecks of oats and plenty of hay, hos-e-lair."

"Yaw," was the laconic grunt of the hostler, as he proceeded to unhitch old bald-face from his rigging.

"Stop one little," said the traveller. "I see 'tis very mosh like to rain, to-night; put up my gig in ze stab'l, too."

"Boosh, tonner and blitzen, der rain not hurt yer ole gig!"

"I pay you for vat you sal do for me, mind vat I sal say, sair, if you pleaze."

The hostler, very surlily, led the traveller's weary old brute to the stable; but, prior to carrying out the orders of the traveller, he sought the landlord, to know if it would _pay_ to put up the shabby concern, and treat the old horse to a real feed of hay and oats, without making some inquiries into the financial situation of the old Frenchman.

The landlord, with a country lawyer and a neighboring farmer, were at the _Bar_, one of those old-fashioned _slatted_ coops, in a corner, peculiar to Pennsylvania, discussing the merits of a law suit, seizure of the property, &c., of a deceased tiller of the soil, in the vicinity. Busily chatting, and quaffing their _toddy_, the entrance of the poor old traveller was scarcely noticed, until he had divested himself of his old, many-caped cloak, and demurely taken a seat in the room. The hostler having reappeared, and talked a little Dutch to the host, that worthy turned to the traveller--

"Good even'ns, thravel'r!"

"Yes, sair;" pleasantly responded the Frenchman, "a little."

"You got a hoss, eh?" continued the landlord.

"Yes, sair, I vish ze hostlair to give mine hoss plenty to eat--plenty hay, plenty oats, plenty watair, sair."

"Yaw," responded the landlord, "den, Jacob, give'm der oats, and der hay, and der water;" and, with this brief direction to his subordinate, the landlord turned away from the way-worn traveller to resume his conversation with his more, apparently, influential friends. The old Frenchman very patiently waited until the discussion should cease, and the landlord's ear be disengaged, that he might be apprized of the fact that travellers had stomachs, and that of the old French gentleman was highly _incensed_ by long delay, and more particularly by the odorous fumes of roast fowls, ham and eggs, &c., issuing from the inner portion of the tavern.

"Landlord, I vil take suppair, if you please," said he.

"Yaw; after dese gentlemans shall eat der suppers, den somesing will be prepared for you."

"Sair!" said the old Frenchman, firing up; "I vill not vait for ze shentilmen; I vant my suppair now, directly--right away; I not vait for nobody, sair!"

"If you no like 'em, den you go off, out mine house," answered the old sour krout, "you old barber!"

"Bar-bair!" gasped the old Frenchman, in suppressed rage. "Sair, I vill go no where, I vill stay here so long, by gar, as--as--as I please, sair!"

"Are you aware, sir," interposed the legal gentleman, "that you are rendering gross and offensive, malicious and libellous, scandalous and burglarious language to this gentleman, in his own domicile, with malice prepense and aforethought, and a ----"

"Pooh! pooh! _pooh!_ for you, sair!" testily replied the Frenchman.

"Pooh? To me, sir? _Me, sir?_" bullyingly echoed Blackstone.

"Yes, sair--pooh--_pooh!_ von geese, sair!"

It were vain to try to depict the rage of wounded pride, the insolence of a travelling _barber_ had stirred up in the very face of the man of law, logic, and legal lore. He swelled up, blowed and strutted about like a _miffed_ gobbler in a barn yard! He tried to cork down his rage, but it bursted forth--

"You--you--you infernal old frog-eating, soap and lather, you--you--you smoke-dried, one-eyed,* poor old wretch, you, if it wasn't for pity's sake, I'd have you taken up and put in the county jail, for vagrancy, I would, you poverty-stricken old rascal!"

[*] Girard, it will be remembered, had but one eye. With that,
however, he saw as much as many do with a full pair of eyes.

"Jacob!" bawled the landlord, to his sub., "bring out der ole hoss again, pefore he die mit de crows, in mine stable; now, you ole fool, you shall go vay pout your bishenish mit nossin to eat, mit yer hoss too!" said the landlord, with an evident rush of blood and beer to his head!

"Oh, veri well," patiently answered the old Frenchman, "veri well, sair, I sal go--but,"--shaking his finger very significantly at the landlord and lawyer, "I com' back to-morrow morning, I buy dis prop-er-tee; you, sir, sal make de deed in my name--I kick you out, sair, (to the landlord,) and to you (the lawyer), I sal like de goose. Booh!"

With this, the poor old Frenchman started for his gig, amid the "Haw! haw! haw! and ha! ha! he! he!" of the landlord and lawyer. "That for you," said the Frenchman, as he gave the surly Dutchman-hostler a real half-dollar, took the dirty "ribbons" and drove off. Now, the farmer, one of the three spectators present, had quietly watched the proceedings, and being _gifted_ with enough insight into human nature to see something more than "an old French barber" in the person and manner of the traveller; and, moreover, being interested in the Tavern property, followed the Frenchman; overtaking him, he at once offered him the hospitalities of his domicile, not far distant, where the traveller passed a most comfortable night, and where his host found out that he was entertaining no less a pecuniary miracle of his time--_than Stephen Girard_.

Early next morning, old Stephy, in his old and _shady_ gig, accompanied by his entertainer, rode over to the two owners of the Tavern property, and with them sought the _lawyer_, the deeds were made out, the old Frenchman _drew_ on his own Bank for the $13,000, gave the farmer a ten years' _lease_ upon the place, paid the lawyer for his trouble, and as that worthy accompanied the millionaire to the door, and was very obsequiously bowing him out, old Stephy turned around on the steps, and looking sharp--with his one eye upon the lawyer, says he--

"Sair! Pooh! pooh!--_Booh!_" off he rode for the Tavern, where he and the landlord had a _haze_, the landlord was notified to _leave_, short metre; and being fully revenged for the insult paid his millions, old Stephen Girard, the great Philadelphia financier, rode back to where he was better used for his money, and evidently better satisfied than ever, that money is mighty when brought to bear upon an object!

A Circumlocutory Egg Pedler.

We have been, frequently, much amused with the man[oe]uvring of some folks in trade. It's not your cute folks, who screw, twist and twirl over a smooth fourpence, or skin a flea for its hide and tallow, and spoil a knife that cost a shilling,--that come out first best in the long run. Some folks have a weakness for beating down shop-keepers, or anybody else they deal with, and so far have we seen this _infirmity_ carried, that we candidly believe we've known persons that would not stop short of cheapening the passage to kingdom come, if they thought a dollar and two cents might be saved in the fare! Now the _rationale_ of the matter is this:--as soon as persons establish a reputation for meanness--beating down folks, they fall victims to all sorts of shaves and short commons, and have the fine Saxony drawn over their eyes--from the nose to the occiput; they get the meanest "bargains," offals, &c., that others would hardly have, even at a heavy discount. Then some folks are so wonderful sharp, too, that we wonder their very shadow does not often cut somebody. A friend of ours went to buy his wife a pair of gaiters; he brought them home; she found all manner of fault with them; among other drawbacks, she declared that for the price her better half had given for the gaiters, _she_ could have got the best article in Waxend's entire shop! _He_ said _she_ had better take them back and try. So she did, and poor Mr. Waxend had an hour of his precious time used up by the lady's attempt to get a more expensive pair of gaiters at a less price than those purchased by her husband. Waxend saw how matters stood, so he consented to adopt the maxim of--when Greek meets Greek, then comes the tug of war!

"Now, marm," said he, "here is a pair of gaiters I have made for Mrs. Heavypurse; they are just your fit, most expensive material, the best article in the shop; Mrs. Heavypurse will not expect them for a few days, and rather than _you_ should be disappointed, I will let _you_ have them for the same price your husband paid for those common ones!"

Of course Mrs. ---- took them, went home in great glee, and told her better half she'd never trust him to go shopping for her again--for they always cheated him. When the husband came to scrutinize his wife's bargain, lo! he detected the self-same gaiters--merely with a different quality of lacings in them! He, like a philosopher, grinned and said nothing. That illustrates one phase in the character of some people who "go it blind" on "bargains" and now, for the pith of our story--the way some folks have of going round "Robin Hood's barn" to come at a thing.

The other day we stopped into a friend's store to see how he was getting along, and presently in came a rural-district-looking customer.

"How'd do?" says he, to the storekeeper, who was busy, keeping the stove warm.

"Pretty well; how is it with you?"

"Well, so, so; how's all the folks?"

"Middling--middling, sir. How's all your folks?"

"Tolerable--yes, tolerable," says the rural gent. "How's trade?" he ventured to inquire.

"Dull, ray-ther dull," responded the storekeeper. "Come take a seat by the stove, Mr. Smallpotatoes."

"Thank you, I guess not," says the ruralite. "Your folks are all stirring, eh?" he added.

"Yes, stirring around a little, sir. How's your mother got?" the storekeeper inquired, for it appeared he knew the man.

"Poorly, dreadful poorly, yet," was the reply. "Cold weather, you see, sort o' sets the old lady back."

"I suppose so," responded our friend; and here, think's we, if there is anything important or business like on the man's mind, he must be near to its focus. But he started again--

"Ain't goin' to Californy, then, are you?" says Mr. Smallpotatoes.

"Guess not," said our friend. "You talked of going, I believe?"

"Well, ye-e-e-s, I did think of it," said the rural gent; "I did think of it last fall, but I kind o' gin it up."

Here another _hiatus_ occurred; the rural gent walked around, viewed the goods and chattels for some minutes; then says he--

"Guess I'll be movin'," and of course that called forth from our friend the venerated expression--

"What's your hurry?"

"Well, nothing 'special. Plaguy cold winter we've got!"

"That's a fact," answered the storekeeper. "How's sleighing out your way--good?"

"First rate; I guess the folks have had enough of it, this winter, by jolly. I hev, any how," says the rural gent. "Trade's dull, eh?"

"Very--very _slack_."

"Dullest time of the year, I reckon, ain't it?"

"Pretty much so, indeed," says the storekeeper.

"I don't see's Californy goold gets much plentier, or business much better, nowhere."

To this bit of cogent reason our friend replied--

"Not much--that's a fact."

"I 'spect there's a good deal of humbug about the Californy goold mines, don't you?"

"The wealth of the country or the ease of coming at it," said the storekeeper, "is no doubt exaggerated some."

"That's my opinion on't too," said the agriculturist. "Some make money out there, and then agin some don't; I reckon more don't than does." To this bright inference the storekeeper ventured to say--

"I think it's highly _probable_."

"All your folks are lively, eh?" inquired Smallpotatoes.

"Pretty much so," said the storekeeper; "troubled a little with influenza, colds, &c.; nothing serious, however."

"Well, I'm glad to hear it."

"All your folks are well, I believe you said?" the storekeeper, in apparent solicitude, inquired, to be reassured of the fact.

"Ye-e-e-s, exceptin' the old lady."

Another pause; we began to feel convinced there was speculation in the rural gent's "eyes," and just for the fun of the thing--as we "were up" to such dodges--we determined to hang on and see how he come out.

"Well, I declare, I must be goin'!" suddenly said the rural gent, and actually made five steps towards the handle of the door.

"Don't be in a hurry," echoed the storekeeper. "When did you come in town?"

"I come in this mornin'."

"Any of the folks in with you?"

"No; my wife did want to come in, but concluded it was too cold; 'spected some of your folks out to see us durin' this good sleighing--why didn't you come?"

"Couldn't very well spare time," said the storekeeper.

"Well, we'd been glad to see you, and if you get time, and the sleighin' holds out, you must come and see us."

"I may--I can't promise for certain."

Now another pause took place, and thinks we--the climax has come, surely, after all that small talk. The country gent walked deliberately to the door; he actually took hold of the knob.

"You off?" says the storekeeper.

"B'lieve I'll be off"--opening the door, then rushes back again--semi-excited by the force of some pent up idea, says the rural gent--"O! Mr. ----, _don't you want to buy some good fresh eggs_?"

"Eggs? Yes, I do; been looking all around for some fresh eggs; how many have you?"

"Five dozen; thought you'd want some; so I come right in to see!"

We nearly catapillered! After all this circumlocution, the man came to the _pint_, and--sold his eggs in two minutes!

Jolly Old Times.

Either mankind or his constitution has changed since "the good old times," for we read in an old medicine book, that bleeding at the nose, and cramp, could be effectually prevented by wearing a dried toad in a bag at the pit of the stomach; while for rheumatism and consumption, a snake skin worn in the crown of your hat, was a sovereign remedy! Dried toads and snake skins are quite out of use around these settlements, and we think the Esculapius who would recommend such nostrums, would be looked upon as a poor devil with a fissure in his cranium, liable to cause his brains to become weather-beaten! We remember hearing of a learned old cuffy, who lived down "dar" near Tallahassee, who invariably recommended cayenne pepper in the eye to cure the toothache! Had this venerable old colored gem'n lived 200 years ago, he would doubtless have created a sensation in the medical circles!

The Pigeon Express Man.

In nearly all yarns or plays in which Yankees figure, they are supposed to be "a leetle teu darn'd ceute" for almost any body else, creating a heap of fun, and coming out clean ahead; but that even Connecticut Yankees--the cutest and all firedest _tight_ critters on the face of the _yearth_, when money or trade's in the question--are "_done_" now and then, upon the most scientific principles, we are going to prove.

It is generally known, in the newspaper world, that two or three Eastern men, a few years ago, started a paper in Philadelphia, upon the penny principle, and have since been rewarded as they deserved. They were, and are, men of great enterprise and liberality, as far as their business is concerned, and thereby they got ahead of all competition, and made their _pile_. The proprietors were always "fly" for any new dodge, by which they could keep the lead of things, and monopolize the _news_ market. The Telegraph had not "turned up" in the day of which we write--the _mails_, and, now and then, express horse lines, were the media through which _Great Excitements! Alarming Events!! Great Fires and Awful Calamities!!_ were come at. One morning, as one of these gentlemen was sitting in his office, a long, lank genius, with a visage as hatchet-faced and keen as any Connecticut Yankee's on record, came in, and inquired of one of the clerks for the proprietors of that institution. Being pointed out, the thin man made a _lean_ towards him. After getting close up, and twisting and screwing around his head to see that nobody was listening or looking, the lean man sat down very gingerly upon the extreme verge of a chair, and leaning forward until his razor-made nose almost touched that of the publisher, in a low, nasal, anxious tone, says he,

"Air yeou one of the publishers of this paper?"

"I am, sir."

"Oh, yeou, sir!" said the visitor, again looking suspiciously around and about him.

"Did you ever hear tell of the _Pigeon Express_?" he continued.

"The Pigeon Express?" echoed the publisher.

"Ya-a-s. Carrier pigeons--letters to their l-e-g-s and newspapers under their wings--trained to fly any where you warnt 'em."

"Carrier Pigeons," mused the publisher--"Carrier--pigeons trained to carry billets--bulletins and--"

"Go frum fifty to a hundred miles an hour!" chimed in the stranger.

"True, so they say, very true," continued the publisher, musingly.

"Elegant things for gettin' or sendin' noos head of every body else."

"Precisely: that's a fact, that's a fact," the other responded, rising from his chair and pacing the floor, as though rather and decidedly _taken_ by the novelty and feasibility of the operation.

"You'd have 'em all, Mister, dead as mutton, by a Pigeon Express."

"I like the idea; good, first rate!"

"Can't be beat, noheow!" said the stranger.

"But what would it cost?"

"Two hundred dollars, and a small wagon, to begin on."

"A small wagon?"

"Ya-a-s. Yeou see, Mister, the birds haff to be trained to fly from one _pint_ to another!"

"Yes; well?"

"Wa-a-ll, yeou see the birds are put in a box, on the top of the bildin', for a spell, teu git the _hang_ of things, and so on!"

"Yes, very well; go on."

"Then the birds are put in a cage, the trainer takes 'em into his wagon--ten miles at first--throws 'em up, and the birds go to the bildin'. Next day fifteen miles, and so forth; yeou see?"

"Perfectly; I understand; now, where can these birds be had?"

Putting his thin lips close to the publisher's opening ears, in a low, long way, says the stranger--

"_I've got 'em!_ R-a-l-e Persian birds--be-e-utis!"

"You understand training them?" says the anxious publisher.

"_Like a book_," the stranger responded.

"Where are the birds?" the publisher inquired.

"I've got 'em down to the tavern, where I'm stoppin'."

"Bring them up; let me see them; let me see them!"

"Certainly, Mister, of course," responded the Pigeon express man, leaving the presence of the tickled-to-death publisher, who paced his office as full of effervescence as a jimmyjohn of spruce beer in dog days.

About this time pigeons were being trained, and in a few cases, now and then, really did carry messages for lottery ticket venders in Jersey City, to Philadelphia, Wilmington, and Baltimore; but these exploits rarely paid first cost, and did not amount to much, although some noise was made about the wonderful performance of certain Carrier Pigeons. But the _paper_ was to have a new impulse--astonish all creation and the rest of mankind, by Pigeon Express. The publisher's partner was in New York, fishing for novelties, and he determined to astonish him, on his return home, by the _bird business!_ A coop was fixed on the top of the "bildin'," as the great inventor of the express had suggested. The wagon was bought, and, with two hundred dollars in for funds, passed over to the pigeon express man, who, in the course of a few days, takes the birds into his wagon, to take them out some few miles, throw them up, and the publisher and a confidential friend were to be on top of the "bildin'," looking out for them.

They kept looking!--they saw something werry like a whale, but a good deal like a first-rate bad "_Sell!_" The lapse of a few days was quite sufficient to convince the publisher that he had been taken in and done for--regularly _picked up_ and done for,--upon the most approved and scientific principles. Rather than let the cat out of the bag, he made up his mind to pocket the _shave_ and keep shady, not even "letting on to his partner," who in the course of the following week returned from Gotham, evidently feeling as fine as silk, about something or other.

"Well, what's new in New York--got hold of any thing rich?" was the first interrogatory.

"Hi-i-i-sh! close the door!" was the reply, indicating something very important on the _tapis_.

"So; my dear fellow, I've got a concern, now, that will put the sixpennies to sleep as sound as rocks!"

"No. What have you started in Gotham?"

"Exactly. If you don't own up the corn, that the idea is grand--immense--I'll knock under."

"Good! I'm glad--particularly glad you've found something new and startling," responded the other. "Well, what is it?"

"Great!--wonderful!--_Carrier Pigeons!_"

"What! Pigeons?"

"_Pigeons!_"

"You don't pretend to say that--"

"Yes, sir, all arranged--luckiest fellows alive, we are--"

"Well, but--"

"Oh, don't be uneasy--I fixed it."

"Well, I'm hanged if this isn't rich!" muttered his partner, sticking his digits into his trowserloons--biting his lips and stamping around.

"Rich! _elegant!_ In two weeks we'll be flying our birds and--"

"Flying! Why, do you--"

"Ha! ha! I knew I'd astonish you; Tom insisted on my keeping perfectly _mum_, until things were in regular working order; he then set the boys to work--we have large cages on top of the building--"

"Come up on top of this building," said the partner, solemnly. "There, do you see that bundle of laths and stuff?"

"Why--why, you don't pretend to say that--"

"I do exactly; a scamp came along here a week ago--talked nothing but Carrier Pigeons--Pigeon Expresses--I thought I'd surprise you, and--"

"Well, well--go on."

"And by thunder I was green enough to give the fellow $200--a horse and wagon--"

"Done! _done!_" roared the other, without waiting for further particulars--"$200 and a horse and wagon--just what Tom and I gave the scamp! ha! ha! ha!"

"Haw! haw! haw!" and the publishers roared under the force of the _joke_.

Whatever became of the pigeon express man is not distinctly known; but he is supposed to have given up the bird business, and gone into the manufacture of woolly horses and cod-liver oil.

Jipson's Great Dinner Party.

"Well, you must do it."

"Do it?"

"Do it, sir," reiterated the lady of Jipson, a man well enough to _do_ in the world, chief clerk of a "sugar baker," and receiving his twenty hundred dollars a year, with no perquisites, however, and--plenty of New Hampshire contingencies, (to quote our beloved man of the million, Theodore Parker,) poor relations.

"But, my dear Betsey, do you _know_, will you consider for once, that to _do_ a thing of the kind--to splurge out like Tannersoil, one must expect--at least I do--to sink a full _quarter_ of my salary, for the current year; yes, a full quarter?"

"Oh! very well, if you are going to live up here" (Jipson had just moved up above "Bleecker street,")--"and bought your carriage, and engaged----"

"Two extra servant girls," chimed in Jipson.

"And a groom, sir," continued Mrs. J.

"And gone into at least six hundred to eight hundred dollars a year extra expenses, to--a----"

"To gratify yourself, and--a----"

"Your--a--a--your vanity, Madam, you should have said, my dear."

"Don't talk that way to me--to me--you brute; you know----"

"I know all about it, my dear."

"_My dear_--bah!" said the lady; "my _dear!_ save that, Mr. Jipson, for some of your--a--a----"

What Mrs. J. might have said, we scarce could judge; but Jipson just then put in a "rejoinder" calculated to prevent the umpullaceous tone of Mrs. J.'s remarks, by saying, in a very humble strain--

"Mrs. Jipson, don't make an ass of yourself: we are too old to act like goslings, and too well acquainted, I hope, with the matters-of-fact of every-day life, to quarrel about things beyond our reach or control."

"If you talk of things beyond your control, Mr. Jipson, I mean beyond your reach, that your income will not permit us to live as other people live----"

"I wouldn't like to," interposed Jipson.

"What?" asked Mrs. Jipson.

"Live like other people--that is, some people, Mrs. Jipson, that I know of."

"You don't suppose _I'm_ going to bury myself and my poor girls in this big house, and have those servants standing about me, their fingers in their mouths, with nothing to do but----"

"But what?"

"But cook, and worry, and slave, and keep shut up for a----"

"For what?"

"For a--a----"

But Mrs. J. was stuck. Jipson saw that; he divined what a _point_ Mrs. J. was about to, but could not conscientiously make, so he relieved her with--

"My dear Betsey, it's a popular fallacy, an exploded idea, a contemptible humbug, to live merely for your neighbors, the rabble world at large. Thousands do it, my dear, and I've no objection to their doing it; it's their own business, and none of mine. I have moved up town because I thought it would be more pleasant; I bought a modest kind of family carriage because I could afford it, and believed it would add to our recreations and health; the carriage and horses required care; I engaged a man to attend to them, fix up the garden, and be useful generally, and added a girl or two to your domestic departments, in order to lighten your own cares, &c. Now, all this, my dear woman, you ought to know, rests a very important responsibility upon my shoulders, health, life, and--two thousand dollars a year, and if you imagine it compatible with common sense, or consonant with my judgment, to make an ass or fool of myself, by going into the extravagances and tom-fooleries of Tannersoil, our neighbor over the way, who happens for the time to be 'under government,' with a salary of nothing to speak of, but with stealings equal to those of a successful freebooter, you--you--you have placed a--a bad estimate upon my common sense, Madam."

With this flaring burst of eloquence, Jipson seized his hat, gloves and cane, and soon might be seen an elderly, natty, well-shaved, slightly-flushed gentleman taking his seat in a down town bound _bus_, en route for the sugar bakery of the firm of Cutt, Comeagain, & Co. It was evident, however, from the frequency with which Jipson plied his knife and rubber to his "figgers" of the day's accounts, and the tremulousness with which he drove the porcupine quill, that Jipson was thinking of something else!

"Mr. Jipson, I wish you'd square up that account of Look, Sharp, & Co., to-day," said Mr. Cutt, entering the counting room.

"All folly!" said Jipson, scratching out a mistake from his day-book, and not heeding the remark, though he saw the person of his employer.

"Eh?" was the ejaculation of Cutt.

"All folly!"

"I don't understand you, sir!" said Cutt, in utter astonishment.