Chapter VIII: Part 8

"Oh! I beg pardon, sir," said poor Jipson; "I beg pardon, sir. Engrossed in a little affair of my own, I quite overlooked your observation. I will attend to the account of Look, Sharp, & Co., at once, sir;" and while Jipson was at it, his employer went out, wondering what in faith could be the matter with Jipson, a man whose capacity and gentlemanly deportment the firm had tested to their satisfaction for many years previous. The little _incident_ was mentioned to the partner, Comeagain. The firm first laughed, then wondered what was up to disturb the usual equilibrium of Jipson, and ended by hoping he hadn't taken to drink or nothing!

"Guess I'd better do it," soliloquizes Jipson. "My wife is a good woman enough, but like most women, lets her vanity trip up her common sense, now and then; she feels cut down to know that Tannersoil's folks are plunging out with dinners and evening parties, troops of company, piano going, and bawling away their new fol-de-rol music. Yes, guess I'll do it.

"Mrs. Jipson little calculates the horrors--not only in a pecuniary, but domestic sense--that these dinners, suppers and parties to the rag-tag and bobtail, cost many honest-meaning people, who _ought_ to be ashamed of them.

"But, I'll do it, if it costs me the whole quarter's salary!"

A few days were sufficient to concoct details and arrange the programme. When Mrs. Jipson discovered, as she vainly supposed, the prevalence of "better sense" on the part of her husband, she was good as cranberry tart, and flew around in the best of humor, to hurry up the event that was to give _eclat_ to the new residence and family of the Jipsons, slightly dim the radiance or mushroom glory of the Tannersoil family, and create a commotion generally--above Bleecker street!

Jipson _drew_ on his employers, for a quarter's salary. The draft was honored, of course, but it led to some _speculation_ on the part of "the firm," as to what Jipson was up to, and whether he wasn't getting into evil habits, and decidedly bad economy in his old age. Jipson talked, Mrs. Jipson talked. Their almost--in fact, Mrs. J., like most ambitious mothers, thought, _really_--marriageable daughters dreamed and talked dinner parties for the full month, ere the great event of their lives came duly off.

One of the seeming difficulties was who to invite--who to get to come, and _where_ to get them! Now, originally, the Jipsons were from the "Hills of New Hampshire, of poor but respectable" birth. Fifteen years in the great metropolis had not created a very extensive acquaintance among solid folks; in fact, New York society fluctuates, ebbs and flows at such a rate, that society--such as domestic people might recognize as unequivocally genteel--is hard to fasten to or find. But one of the Miss Jipsons possessed an acquaintance with a Miss Somebody else, whose brother was a young gentleman of very _distingue_ air, and who knew the entire "ropes" of fashionable life, and people who enjoyed that sort of existence in the gay metropolis.

Mr. Theophilus Smith, therefore, was eventually engaged. It was his, as many others' vocation, to arrange details, command the feast, select the company, and control the coming event. The Jipsons confined their invitations to the few, very few genteel of the family, and even the diminutiveness of the number invited was decimated by Mr. Smith, who was permitted to review the parties invited.

Few domiciles--of civilian, "above Bleecker st.,"--were better illuminated, set off and detailed than that of Jipson, on the evening of the ever-memorable dinner. Smith had volunteered to "engage" a whole set of silver from Tinplate & Co., who generously offer our ambitious citizens such opportunities to splurge, for a fair consideration; while china, porcelain, a dozen colored waiters in white aprons, with six plethoric fiddlers and tooters, were also in Smith's programme. Jipson at first was puzzled to know where he could find volunteers to fill two dozen chairs, but when night came, Mr. Theophilus Smith, by force of tactics truly wonderful, drummed in a force to face a gross of plates, napkins and wine glasses.

Mrs. Jipson was evidently astonished, the Misses J. not a little vexed at the "raft" of elegant ladies present, and the independent manner in which they monopolized attention and made themselves at home.

Jipson swore inwardly, and looked like "a sorry man." Smith was at home, in his element; he was head and foot of the party. Himself and friends soon led and ruled the feast. The band struck up; the corks flew, the wine _fizzed_, the ceilings were spattered, and the walls tattooed with Burgundy, Claret and Champagne!

"To our host!" cries Smith.

"Yes--ah! 'ere's--ah! to our a--our host!" echoes another swell, already insolently "corned."

"Where the--a--where is our worthy host?" says another specimen of "above Bleecker street" genteel society. "I--a say, trot out your host, and let's give the old fellow a toast!"

"Ha! ha! b-wavo! b-wavo!" exclaimed a dozen shot-in-the-neck bloods, spilling their wine over the carpets, one another, and table covers.

"This is intolerable!" gasps poor Jipson, who was in the act of being kept _cool_ by his wife, in the drawing-room.

"Never mind, Jipson----"

"Ah! there's the old fellaw!" cries one of the swells.

"I-ah--say, Mister----"

"Old roostaw, I say----"

"Gentlemen!" roars Jipson, rushing forward, elevating his voice and fists.

"For heaven's sake! Jipson," cries the wife.

"Gentlemen, or bla'guards, as you are."

"Oh! oh! Jipson, will you hear me?" imploringly cries Mrs. Jipson.

"What--ah--are you at? Does he--ah----"

"Yes, what--ah--does old Jip say?"

"Who the deuce, old What's-your-name, do you call gentlemen?" chimes in a third.

"Bla'guards!" roars Jipson.

"Oh, veri well, veri well, old fellow, we--ah--are--ah--to blame for--ah--patronizing a snob," continues a swell.

"A what?" shouts Jipson.

"A plebeian!"

"A codfish--ah----"

"Villains! scoundrels! bla'guards!" shouts the outraged Jipson, rushing at the intoxicated swells, and hitting right and left, upsetting chairs, tables, and lamps.

"Murder!" cries a knocked down guest.

"E-e-e-e-e-e!" scream the ladies.

"Don't! E-e-e-e! don't kill my father!" screams the daughter.

Chairs and hats flew; the negro servants and Dutch fiddlers, only engaged for the occasion, taking no interest in a free fight, and not caring two cents who whipped, laid back and--

"Yaw! ha! ha! De lor'! Yaw! ha! ha!"

Mrs. Jipson fainted; ditto two others of the family; the men folks (!) began to travel; the ladies (!) screamed; called for their hats, shawls, and _chaperones_,--the most of the latter, however, were _non est_, or too well "set up," to heed the common state of affairs.

Jipson finally cleared the house. Silence reigned within the walls for a week. In the interim, Mrs. Jipson and the daughters not only got over their hysterics, but ideas of gentility, as practised "above Bleecker street." It took poor Jipson an entire year to recuperate his financial "outs," while it took the whole family quite as long to get over their grand debut as followers of fashion in the great metropolis.

Look out for them Lobsters.

Deacon ----, who resides in a pleasant village inside of an hour's ride upon Fitchburg road, rejoices in a fondness for the long-tailed _crustacea_, vulgarly known as lobsters. And, from messes therewith fulminated, by _some_ of our professors of gastronomics that we have seen, we do not attach any wonder at all to the deacon's penchant for the aforesaid shell-fish. The deacon had been disappointed several times by assertions of the lobster merchants, who, in their overwhelming zeal to effect a sale, had been a little too sanguine of the precise _time_ said lobsters were caught and boiled; hence, after lugging home a ten pound specimen of the vasty deep, miles out into the quiet country, the deacon was often sorely vexed to find the lobster no better than it should be!

"Why don't you get them alive, deacon?" said a friend,--"get them alive and kicking, deacon; boil them yourself; be sure of their freshness, and have them cooked more carefully and properly."

"Well said," quoth the deacon; "so I can, for they sell them, I observe, near the depot,--right out of the boat. I'm much obliged for the notion."

The next visit of the good deacon to Boston,--as he was about to return home, he goes to the bridge and bargains for two live lobsters, fine, active, lusty-clawed fellows, alive and kicking, and no mistake!

"But what will I do with them?" says the deacon to the purveyor of the _crustacea_, as he gazed wistfully upon the two sprawling, ugly, green and scratching lobsters, as they lay before him upon the planks at his feet.

"Do with 'em?" responded the lobster merchant,--"why, bile 'em and eat 'em! I bet you a dollar you never ate better lobsters 'n them, nohow, mister!"

The deacon looked anxiously and innocently at the speaker, as much as to say--"you don't say so?"

"I mean, friend, how shall I get them home?"

"O," says the lobster merchant, "that's easy enough; here, Saul," says he, calling up a frizzle-headed lad in blue pants--_sans_ hat or boots, and but one _gallows_ to his breeches, "here, you, light upon these lobsters and carry 'em home for this old gentleman."

"Goodness, bless you," says the deacon; "why friend, I reside ten miles out in the country!"

"O, the blazes you do!" says the lobster merchant; "well, I tell you, Saul can carry 'em to the cars for you in this 'ere bag, if you're goin' out?"

"Truly, he can," quoth the deacon; "and Saul can go right along with me."

The lobsters were dashed into a piece of Manilla sack, thrown across the shoulders of the juvenile Saul, and away they went at the heels of the deacon, to the depot; here Saul dashed down the "poor creturs" until their bones or shells rattled most piteously, and as the deacon handed a "three cent piece" to Saul, the long and wicked claw of one of the lobsters protruded out of the bag--opened and shut with a _clack_, that made the deacon shudder!

"Those fellows are plaguy awkward to handle, are they not, my son?" says the deacon.

"Not _werry_," says the boy; "they can't bite, cos you see they's got pegs down here--_hallo!_" As Saul poked his hand down towards the big claw lying partly out of the open-mouthed bag, the claw opened, and _clacked_ at his fingers, ferocious as a mad dog.

"His peg's out," said the boy--"and I can't fasten it; but here's a chunk of twine; tie the bag and they can't get out, any how, and you kin put 'em into yer pot right out of the bag."

"Yes, yes," says the deacon; "I guess I will take care of them; bring them here; there, just place the bag right in under my seat; so, that will do."

Presently the cars began to fill up, as the minute of departure approached, and soon every seat around the worthy deacon was occupied. By-and-by, "a middle-aged lady," in front of the deacon, began to _fussle_ about and twist around, as if anxious to arrange the great amplitude of her _drapery_, and look after something "bothering" her feet. In front of the lady, sat a _slab_-sided _genus_ dandy, fat as a match and quite as good looking; between his legs sat a pale-face dog, with a flashing collar of brass and tinsel, quite as gaudy as his master's neck-choker; this canine gave an awful--

"_Ihk!_ ow, yow! yow-oo--yow, ook! yow! _yow!_ YOW!"

"Lor' a massy!" cries the woman in front of the deacon, jumping up, and making a desperate splurge to get up on to the seats, and in the effort upsetting sundry bundles and parcels around her!

"Yow-_ook!_ Yow-_ook!_" yelled the dog, jumping clear out of the grasp of the juvenile _Mantillini_, and dashing himself on to the head and shoulders of the next seat occupants, one of whom was a sturdy civilized Irishman, who made "no bones" in grasping the sickly-looking dog, and to the horror and alarm of the entire female party present, he sung out:

"Whur-r-r ye about, ye brute! Is the divil _mad_?"

"Eee! Ee! O dear! O! O!" cries an anxious mother.

"O! O! O-o-o! save us from the dog!" cries another.

"Whur-r-r-r! ye _divil!_" cries the Irish gintilman, pinning the poor dog down between the seats, with a force that extracted another glorious yell.

"Ike! Ike! Ike! oo, ow! ow! Ike! Ike! Ike!"

"Murder! mur-r-r-der!" bawls another victim in the rear of the deacon, leaping up in his seat, and rubbing his leg vigorously.

"What on airth's loose?" exclaims one.

"Halloo! what's that?" cries another, hastily vacating his seat and crowding towards the door.

"O dear, O! O!" anxiously cries a delicate young lady.

"What? who? where?" screamed a dozen at once.

"Good _conscience!_" exclaims the deacon, as he dropped his newspaper, in the midst of the din--noise and confusion; and with a most singular and spasmodic effort to dance a "_high_land fling," he hustled out of his seat, exclaiming:

"Good conscience, I really believe they're out."

"Eh? What--what's out?" cries one.

"Snakes!" echoes an old gentleman, grasping a cane.

"Snappin' turtles, Mister?" inquire several.

"Snakes!" cried a dozen.

"Snappers!" echoes a like quantity of the dismayed.

"Snapper-r-r-r-rs!"

"Snake-e-e-es!" O what a din!

"Halloo! here, what's all this? What's the matter?" says the conductor, coming to the rescue.

"That man's got snakes in the car!" roar several at once.

"And snappin' turtles, too, consarn him!" says one, while all eyes were directed, tongues wagging, and hands gesticulating furiously at the astonished deacon.

"Take care of them! Take care of them! I believe I'm bitten clear through my boot--catch them, Mr. Swallow!" cries the deacon.

"Swallow 'em, Mr. Catcher!" echoes the frightened dandy.

"What? where?" says the excited conductor, looking around.

"Here, here, in under these seats, sir,--_my lobsters, sir_," says the deacon, standing aloof to let the conductor and the man with the cane get at the _reptiles_, as the latter insisted.

"Darn 'em, are they only lobsters!"

"Pooh! Lobsters!" says young Mantillini, with a mock heroic shrug of his shoulders, and looking fierce as two cents!

"Come out here!" says the conductor, feeling for them.

"Take care!" says the deacon, "the plaguy things have got their pins out!"

"Why, they are _alive_, and crawling around; hear the old fellow,--take care, Mr. Swaller--he's cross as sin!" says the man with the cane--"wasn't that a _snap_? Take care! You got him?" that indefatigable assistant continued, rattling his tongue and cane.

"I've got them!" cries the conductor.

"Put them in the bag, here, sir," says the deacon.

"Take them out of this car!" cries everybody.

"Plaguy things," says the deacon. "I sha'n't never buy another _live lobster!_"

Order was restored, passengers took their seats, but when young Mantillini looked for his dog, he had vamosed with the _Irishman_, at "the last stopping place," in his excitement, leaving a quart jug of whiskey in lieu of the dandy's dog.

The Fitzfaddles at Hull.

"Well, well, drum no more about it, for mercy's sake; if you must go, you must _go_, that's all."

"Yes, just like you, Fitzfaddle"--pettishly reiterates the lady of the middle-aged man of business; "mention any thing that would be gratifying to the children--"

"The children--_umph!_"

"Yes, the children; only mention taking the dear, tied-up souls to, to--to the Springs--"

"_Haven't_ they been to Saratoga? _Didn't_ I spend a month of my precious time and a thousand of my precious dollars there, four years ago, to be physicked, cheated, robbed, worried, starved, and--laughed at?" Fitzfaddle responds.

"Or, to the sea-side--" continued the lady.

"Sea-side! good conscience!" exclaims Fitzfaddle; "my dear Sook--"

"Don't call me _Sook_, Fitzfaddle; _Sook!_ I'm not _in_ the kitchen, nor _of_ the kitchen, you'll please remember, Fitzfaddle!" said the lady, with evident feeling.

"O," echoed Fitz, "God bless me, Mrs. Fitzfaddle, don't be so rabid; don't be foolish, in your old days; my dear, we've spent the happiest of our days in the kitchen; when we were first married, _Susan_, when our whole stock in trade consisted of five ricketty chairs--"

"Well, that's enough about it--" interposed the lady.

"A plain old pine breakfast table--" continued Fitz.

"I'd stop, just THERE--" scowlingly said Mrs. Fitz.

"My father's old chest, and your mother's old corner cupboard--" persevered the indefatigable monster.

"I'd go through the whole inventory--" angrily cried Mrs. Fitz--"clean down to--"

"The few broken pots, pans, and dishes we had--"

"Don't you--_don't you feel ashamed of yourself_?" exclaims Mrs. Fitz, about as full of anger as she could well contain; but Fitz keeps the even tenor of his way.

"Not at all, my dear; Heaven forbid that I should ever forget a jot of the real happiness of any portion of my life. When you and I, dear Sook (an awful scowl, and a sudden change of her position, on her costly rocking chair. Fitz looked askance at Mrs. Fitz, and proceeded); when you and I, _Susan_, lived in Dowdy's little eight by ten 'blue frame,' down in Pigginsborough; not a yard of carpet, or piece of mahogany, or silver, or silk, or satin, or flummery of any sort, the five old chairs--"

"Good conscience! are you going to have that over again?" cries Mrs. Fitz, with the utmost chagrin.

"The old white pine table--"

Mrs. Fitz starts in horror.

"My father's old chest, and your mother's old corner cupboard!"

Mrs. Fitz, in an agony, walks the floor!

"The few broken or cracked pots, pans and dishes, we had--"

Nature quite "gin eout"--the exhausted Mrs. Fitzfaddle throws herself down upon the sumptuous _conversazione_, and absorbs her grief in the ample folds of a lace-wrought handkerchief (bought at Warren's--cost the entire profits of ten quintals of Fitzfaddle & Co.'s A No. 1 cod!), while the imperturbable Fitz drives on--

"Your mother's old cooking stove, Susan--the time and again, Susan, I've sat in that little kitchen--"

Mrs. Fitzfaddle shudders all over. Each reminiscence, so dear to Fitzfaddle, seems a dagger to her.

"With little Nanny--"

"You--you brute! You--you vulgar--you--you Fitzfaddle. Nanny! to call your daughter N-Nanny!"

"Nanny! why, yes, Nanny--" says the matter-of-fact head of the firm of Fitzfaddle & Co. "I believe we did intend to call the girl Nancy; we _did_ call her Nanny, Mrs. Fitzfaddle; but, like all the rest, by your innovations, things have kept changing no better fast. I believe my soul that girl has had five changes in her name before you concluded it was up to the highest point of modern respectability. From Nancy you had it Nannette, from Nannette to Ninna, from Ninna to Naomi, and finally it was rested at Anna Antoinette De Orville Fitzfaddle! Such a mess of nonsense to _handle_ my plain name."

"Anna Antoinette De Orville"--said Mrs. Fitz, suddenly rallying, "_is_ a name, only made _plain_ by your ugly and countryfied prefix. De Orville is a name," said the lady.

"I should like to know," said the old gentleman, "upon what pretext, Mrs. Fitzfaddle, you lay claim to such a Frenchy and flighty name or title as De Orville?"

"Wasn't it my family name, you brute?" cried Mrs. Fitz.

"Ho! ho! ho! Sook, Sook, _Sook_," says Fitzfaddle.

"_Sook!_" almost screams Mrs. Fitz.

"Yes, _Sook_, Sook _Scovill_, daughter of a good old-fashioned, patriotic farmer--_Timothy Scovill_, of Tanner's Mills, in the county of Tuggs--down East. And when I married Sook (Mrs. Fitz jumped up, a rustling of silk is heard--a door slams, and the old gentleman finishes his domestic narrative, _solus!_), she was as fine a gal as the State ever produced. We were poor, and we knew it; wasn't discouraged or put out, on the account of our poverty. We started in the world square; happy as clams, nothing but what was useful around us; it is a happy reflection to look back upon those old chairs, pine table, my father's old chest, and Sook's mother's old corner cupboard--the cracked pots and pans--the old stove--Sook as ruddy and bright as a full-blown rose, as she bent over the hot stove in our parlor, dining room, and kitchen--turning her slap-jacks, frying, baking and boiling, and I often by her side, with our first child, Nanny, on my--"

"Well, I hope by this time you're over your vulgar Pigginsborough recollections, Fitzfaddle!" exclaims Mrs. Fitz, re-entering the parlor.

"I was just concluding, my dear, the happy time when I sat and read to you, or held Nanny, while you--"

"Fitzfaddle, for goodness' sake--"

"While you--ruddy and bright, my dear, as the full-blown rose, bent over your mother's old cook stove--"

"Are you crazy, Fitz, or do you want to craze me?" cried the really _tried_ woman.

"Turning your slap-jacks," continues Fitz, suiting the action to the word.

"Fitzfaddle!" cries Mrs. Fitz, in the most sublimated paroxysm of pity and indignation, but Fitz let it come.

"_While I dandled Nanny on my knee!_"

A pause ensues; Fitzfaddle, in contemplation of the past, and Mrs. Fitz fortifying herself for the opening of a campaign to come. At length, after a deal of "dicker," Fitz remembering only the bad dinners, small rooms, large bills, sick, parboiled state of the children, clash and clamor of his trips to the Springs, sea-side and mountain resorts; and Mrs. Fitz dwelling over the strong opposition (show and extravagance) she had run against the many ambitious shop-keepers' wives, tradesmen's, lawyers' and doctors' daughters--Mrs. Fitz gained her point, and the family,--Mrs. Fitz, the two now marriageable daughters--Anna Antoinette De Orville, and Eugenia Heloise De Orville, and Alexander Montressor De Orville, and two servants--start in style, for the famed city of Hull!

It was yet early in the season, and Fitzfaddle had secured, upon accommodating terms, rooms &c., of Mrs. Fitzfaddle's own choosing. With the diplomacy of five prime ministers, and with all the pride, pomp and circumstance of a fine-looking woman of two-and-forty,--husband rich, and indulgent at that; armed with two "marriageable daughters," you may--if at all familiar with life at a "watering-place," fancy Mrs. Fitzfaddle's feelings, and perhaps, also, about a third of the _swarth_ she cut. The first evident opposition Mrs. Fitz encountered, was from the wife of a wine merchant. This lady made her _entree_ at ---- House, with a pair of bays and "body servant," two poodles, and an immensity of band boxes, patent leather trunks, and--her husband. The first day Mrs. Oldport sat at table, her new style of dress, and her European jewels, were the afternoon talk; but at tea, the Fitzfaddles _spread_, and Mrs. Oldport was bedimmed, easy; the next day, however, "turned up" an artist's wife and daughter, whose unique elegance of dress and proficiency in music took down the entire collection! Mrs. Michael Angelo Smythe and daughter captivated two of Mrs. Fitzfaddle's "circle"--a young naval gent and a 'quasi Southern planter, much to her chagrin and Fitzfaddle's pecuniary suffering; for next evening Mrs. F. got up,--to get back her two recruits--a grand private _hop_, at a cost of $130! And the close of the week brought such a cloud of beauty, jewels, marriageable daughters and ambitious mothers, wives, &c., that Mrs. Fitzfaddle got into such a worry with her diplomatic arrangements, her competitions, stratagems,--her fuss, her jewels, silks, satins and feathers, that a nervous-headache preceded a typhus fever, and the unfortunate lady was forced to retire from the field of her glory at the end of the third week, entirely prostrated; and poor Jonas Fitzfaddle out of pocket--more or less--_five hundred dollars!_ The last we heard of Fitzfaddle, he was apostrophizing the good old times when he rejoiced in five old chairs--cook stove--slap-jacks, &c.!

Putting Me on a Platform!

Human nature doubtless has a great many weak points, and no few bipeds have a great itching after notoriety and fame. Fame, I am credibly informed, is not unlike a greased pig, always hard chased, but too eternal slippery for every body to hold on to! I have never cared a tinker's curse for glory myself; the satisfaction of getting quietly along, while in pursuit of bread, comfort and knowledge, has sufficed to engross my individual attention; but I've often "had my joke" by observing the various grand dashes made by cords of folks, from snob to nob, patrician to plebeian, in their gyrations to form a circle, in which they might be the centre pin! This desire, or feeling, is a part and parcel of human nature; you will observe it every where--among the dusky and man-eating citizens of the Fejee Islands--the dog-eating population of China--the beef-eaters of England, and their descendants, ye _Yankoos_ of the new world; all, all have a tendency for lionization.

This very _innocent_ pastime finds a great many supporters, too; toadyism is the main prop that sustains and exalteth the vain glory of man; if you can only get a _toady_--the _more_ the better--you can the sooner and firmer fix your digits upon the greased pig of fame; but as thrift must always follow fawning, or toadyism, it is most essentially necessary that you be possessed of a greater or lesser quantity of the goods and chattels of this world, or some kind of tangible effects, to grease the wheels of your emollient supporters; otherwise you will soon find all your air-built castles, dignity and glory, dissolve into mere gas, and your stern in the gravel immediately.

Such is the pursuit of glory, and such its supporters, their gas and human weakness. I have said that I never sought distinction, but I have had it thrust upon me more than once, and the last effort of the kind was so particularly _salubrious_, that I must relate to you, _confidentially_ of course, how it came about.

When I first came to Boston, as a matter of course, I spent much of my time in surveying "the lions," dipping into this, and peeping into that; promenading the Common and climbing the stupendous stairway of Bunker Hill; ransacking the forts, islands, beautiful Auburn, &c., &c.

Finally, I went into the State House, but as this notable building was undergoing some repairs, placards were tacked up about the doors, prohibiting persons from strolling about the capitol. The attendant was very polite, and told me, and several others desirous to see the building inside, that if we called in the course of a few days, we could be gratified, but for the present no one but those engaged about the work, were allowed to enter. I persisted so closely in my desire to examine the interior, while on the spot, that the man, when the rest of the visitors had gone, relented, and I was not only allowed to see what I should see, but he _toted_ me "round."

We sauntered into the Assembly Chamber, surveyed and learned all the particulars of that, peered into the side-rooms, closets, &c., and then came to the Senate Chamber. This you know is something finer than the country meeting house, or circus-looking Assembly Chamber, where the "fresh-men," or green members from Hard-Scrabble, Hull, Squantum, etc.,--incipient Demostheneses, and sucking Ciceros, first tap their gasometers "in the haouse." Here I found the venerable pictures of the ancient _mugs_, who have figured as Governors, &c., of the commonwealth, from the days of Puritan Winthrop to the ever-memorable Morton, who, strange as it may appear, was really elected Governor, though a double-distilled Democrat. Bucklers, swords, drums and muskets, that doubtless rattled and banged away upon Bunker Hill, were duly, carefully and critically examined, and as a finale to my debut in the Senate, I mounted the Speaker's stand, and spouted about three feet of Webster's first oration at Bunker Hill. To be sure, my audience was _small_, but _it_ was duly attentive, and as I waved my hands aloft, and thumped my ribs, after the most approved system of patriotic vehemence of the day, he--my audience--opened his mouth, and stretched his eyes to the size of dinner plates, at my prodigious slaps at eloquence; the very ears of the _canvased_ governors seemed pricked up, and I descended the stand big as Mogul, insinuated "a quarter" into the palm of the polite attendant, informed him I should call in a few days to take a view from the top of the dome, &c. He bowed and I took myself off.

Several days afterwards I found myself in the vicinity of the State House; so, thinks I, I'll just drop in, and go up to the top of the dome and get a view of the city and suburbs.

My chaperon was on hand, and he no sooner clapped eyes upon me, than he pitched into all manner of highfernooten flub-dubs, bowed and scraped, and regretted that the day was so misty and dull, as I would not be enabled to have half a chance to get a view.

"I wouldn't try it to-day, sir," said he.

"What's the reason?" asked I.

"Oh," replied he, "you'll not see half the outline of the city and the villages around, and you'll want to get them all down distinct."

"Get them all _down_ distinct?" quoth I.

"Yes, sir; and the day is so dull and cloudy that you'll not see half the prominent buildings, never mind the whole of the former and not so easily seen houses. You intend taking a full view, don't you, sir?"

"Why, yes, I would like to," says I, partly lost to conceive what caused such a sudden and unaccountable ebullition of the man's great interest in my getting "a first rate notice" of matters and things from the top of the capitol! But up I went, in spite of my attentive friend's fears of my not getting quite so clear and distinct a view as he could wish. Having gratified myself with such a view as the weather and the height of the capitol afforded (and in clear weather you can get far the best survey of Boston and the environs from the top of the State House than from any other promontory about), I descended again. At the foot of the stairway my assiduous cicerone again beset me, introduced several other miscellaneous-looking chaps to me, and, in short, was making of me, why or wherefore I knew not, quite a lion!

"Well, sir," said he, "what do you think of it, sir? Could you get the outline?"

"Not very well," said I, "but the view is very fine."

"O, yes, sir," said he; "but as soon as you wish to begin, sir, let me know, and I'll lock the upper doors when you go up, and you'll not be disturbed, sir."

"Lock the doors?" said I, in some amazement.

"Yes, sir," quoth he, "but it would be best to come as early in the morning as possible, or, if convenient, before the visitors begin to come up; they'd disturb you, you know!"

"Disturb _me!_ Why, I don't know how they would do that?"

"Why, sir, when Mr. Smith--you know Mr. Smith, sir, I suppose?"

"Why, yes; the name strikes me as _somewhat_ familiar; do you refer to _John Smith_?" I observed, beginning to participate in the joke, which began to develop itself pretty distinctly.

"Yes, sir; I believe his name is John--John R. Smith; he's a splendid artist, sir; _his_ sketch or panorama is a beauty! Sir! did you ever see his panorama?"

"I think I did, in New York," I replied.

By this time some dozen or two visitors had congregated around us, and I was the centre of a considerable circle, and from the whispers, and pointing of fingers, I felt duly sensible, that, great or small, I was a LION! Under what auspices, I was in too dense a fog to make out; to me it was an unaccountable mist'ry.

"I'll tell you what I can do, sir," continued my toady; "I can have a small platform erected, outside of the cupola, for you, to place your _designs_ or sketches on, and you'll not be so liable to be disturbed. Mr. Smith, he had a platform made, sir."

I beckoned the man to step aside, in the Senate Chamber.

"Now, sir," said I, "you will please inform me, who the devil do you take me for?"

"Oh, I knew who you were, the moment you came in, sir," said he, with a very knowing leer out of his half-squinting eyes.

"Did you? Well then I must certainly give you credit for devilish keen perception; but, if it's a fair question," I continued, "what do you mean by fixing a platform for my _designs_? You don't think I'm going to fly, jump or deliver orations from the cupola, do you?"

"No, I don't; but you're to draw a grand panorama of Boston, ain't you?"

"ME?"

"Yes, you; ain't your name Mr. Banvard?"

"Oh, yes, yes--I understand--you've found me out, but keep dark--mum's the word--you understand?" said I, winkingly.

"Yes, sir; I'll fix it all right; you'll want the platform outside, I guess."

"Yes; out with it, and _keep dark until I come!_"

I skeeted down them steps into the Common to let off my corked up risibilities.--Whether the man actually did prepare a platform for my designs, or whether Banvard ever went to take his designs there, I am unable to say, as I went South a few days afterward, and did not return for some time.

The Exorbitancy of Meanness.

Few _extravaganzas_ of man or woman lay such a heavy _stress_ upon the pocket-book or purse as meanness. This may seem paradoxical, but it's nothing of the kind. How many thousands to save a cent, walk a mile! How many to cut down expenses, cut off a thousand of the little "filling ins" which go to make us both happy and healthy! Jones refused to let his little boy run an errand for Johnson, and when Jones's house was in a blaze, Johnson forbid him touching his water to put it out. Smith by accident ran his wagon afoul of Peppers's cart, Peppers in revenge "cut away" at Smith's horse; horse ran away, broke the wagon, dislocated Smith's collar-bone; a suit at law followed, and Peppers being a mighty spunky, as well as a powerfully mean man, fought it out four years, and finally sunk every cent he had in the world by the slight transaction. It is a first-rate idea to be economical, but the man who sees and feels, and smells and tastes, entirely through his pocket-book, isn't worth cultivating an acquaintance with. Go in, marry money if you can, save up some, but don't cultivate meanness, for it never pays.

"Taking Down" a Sheriff.

Ex-honorable John Buck, once the "representative" of a _district_ out West, a lawyer originally, and finally a gentleman at large, and Jeremy Diddler generally, took up his quarters in Philadelphia, years ago, and putting himself upon his dignity, he managed for a time, _sans l'argent_, to live like a prince. Buck was what the world would call a devilish clever fellow; he was something of a scholar, with the smattering of a gentleman; good at off-hand dinner table oratory, good looking, and what never fails to take down the ladies, he wore hair enough about his countenance to establish two Italian grand dukes. Buck was "an awful blower," but possessed common-sense enough not to waste his _gas_-conade--ergo, he had the merit not to falsify to ye ancient falsifiers.

The Honorable Mr. Buck's _manner_ of living not being "seconded" by a corresponding manner of _means_, he very frequently ran things in the ground, got in debt, head and heels. The Honorable Mr. B. had patronized a dealer in Spanish mantles, corduroys and opera vests, to the amount of some two hundred dollars; and, very naturally, ye fabricator of said cloth appurtenances for ye body, got mad towards the last, and threatened "the Western member" with a course of legal sprouts, unless he "showed cause," or came up and squared the yards. As Hon. John Buck had had frequent invitations to pursue such courses, and not being spiritually or personally inclined that way, he let the notice slide.

Shears, the tailor, determined to put the Hon. John through; so he got out a writ of the savagest kind--arson, burglary and false pretence--and a deputy sheriff was soon on the taps to smoke the Western member out of his boots. Upon inquiring at the United States Hotel, where the honorable gentleman had been wont to "put up," they found he had vacated weeks before and gone to Yohe's Hotel. Thither, the next day, the deputy repaired, but old Mother Yohe--rest her soul!--informed the officer that the honorable gentleman had stepped out one morning, in a hurry like, and forgot to pay a small bill!

John was next traced to the Marshall House, where he had left his mark and cleared for Sanderson's, where the indefatigable tailor and his terrier of the law, pursued the member, and learned that he had gone to Washington!

"Done! by Jeems!" cried Shears.

"Hold on," says the deputy, "hold on; he's not off; merely a dodge to get away from this house; we'll find him. Wait!"

Shears did wait, so did the deputy sheriff, until other bills, amounting to a good round sum, were lodged at the Sheriff's office, and the very Sheriff himself took it in hand to nab the _cidevant_ M. C., and cause him to suffer a little for his country and his friends!

Now, it so chanced that Sheriff F., who was a politician of popular renown--a good, jolly fellow--knew the Hon. Mr. Buck, having had "the pleasure of his acquaintance" some months previous, and having been _floored_ in a political argument with the "Western member," was inclined to be down upon him.

"I'll snake him, I'll engage," says Sheriff F., as he thrust "the documents" into his pocket and proceeded to hunt up the transgressor. Accidentally, as it were, who should the Sheriff meet, turning a corner into the grand _trottoir_, Chestnut street, but our gallant hero of ye ballot-box in the rural districts, once upon a time!

"Ah, ha-a-a! How are ye, Sheriff?" boisterously exclaims the Ex-M. C., as familiarly as you please.

"Ah, ha! Mr. Buck," says the Sheriff, "glad (?) to see you."

"Fine day, Sheriff?"

"Elegant, sir, _prime_," says the Sheriff.

"What do you think of Mr. Jigger's speech on the Clam trade? Did you read Mr. Porkapog's speech on the widening of Jenkins's ditch?"

For which general remarks on the affairs of the nation, Sheriff F. _put_ some corresponding replies, and so they proceeded along until they approached a well-known dining saloon, then under the supervision of a burly Englishman; and, as it was about the time people dined, and the Sheriff being a man that liked a fat dinner and a fine bottle, about as well as any body, when the Hon. Mr. Buck proposed--

"What say you, Sheriff, to a dinner and a bottle of old Sherry, at ----? We don't often meet (?), so let's sit down and have a quiet talk over things."

"Well, Mr. Buck," says the Sheriff, "I would like to, just as soon as not, but I've got a disagreeable bit of business with you, and it would be hardly friendly to eat your dinner before apprizing you of the fact, sir."

"Ah! Sheriff, what is it, pray?" says the somewhat alarmed Diddler; "nothing serious, of course?"

"Oh, no, not serious, particularly; only a _writ_, Mr. Buck; a writ, that's all."

"For my arrest?"

"Your arrest, sir, on sight," says the Sheriff.

"The deuce! What's the charge!"

"Debt--false pretence--_swindling!_"

"Ha! ha! that is a good one!" says the slight'y cornered Ex-M. C.; "well, hang it, Sheriff, don't let business spoil our digestion; come, let us dine, and then I'm ready for execution!" says the "Western member," with well affected gaiety.

Stepping into a private room, they rang the bell, and a burly waiter appeared.

"Now, Mr. F.," says the adroit Ex-M. C., "call for just what you like; I leave it to you, sir."

"Roast ducks; what do you say, Buck?"

"Good."

"Oyster sauce and lobster salad?"

"Good," again echoes the Ex-M. C.

"And a--Well, waiter, you bring some of the best side dishes you have," says the Sheriff.

"Yes, sir," says the waiter, disappearing to fill the order.

"What are you going to drink, Sheriff?" asks the honorable gent.

"Oh! ah, yes! Waiter, bring us a bottle of Sherry; you take Sherry, Buck?"

"Yes, I'll go Sherry."

The Sherry was brought, and partly discussed by the time the dinner was spread.

"They keep the finest Port here you ever tasted," says the Diddler.

"Do they!" he responds; "well, suppose we try it?"

A bottle of old Port was brought, and the two worthies sat back and really enjoyed themselves in the saloon of the sumptuously kept restaurant; they then drank and smoked, until sated nature cried enough, and the Sheriff began to think of business.

"Suppose we top off with a fine bottle of English ale, Sheriff!"

"Well, be it so; and then, Buck, we'll have to proceed to the office."

"Waiter, bring me a couple of bottles of your English ale," says the Hon. Mr. Buck.

"Yes, sir."

"And I'll see to the bill, Sheriff, while the waiter brings the ale," said the Ex-M. C., leaving the room "for a moment," to speak to the landlord.

"Landlord," says the Diddler, "do you know that gentleman with whom I've dined in 15?"

"No, I don't," says the landlord.

"Well," continues Diddler, "I've no _particular_ acquaintance with him; he invited me here to dine; I suppose he intends to pay for what he ordered, but (whispering) _you had better get your money before he gets out of that room!_"

"Oh! oh! coming that are dodge, eh? I'll show him!" said the burly landlord, making tracks for the room, from which the Sheriff was now emerging, to look after his prisoner.

"There's for the ale," says the Diddler, placing half a dollar in the waiter's hand; "I ordered that, and there's for it." So saying, he vamosed.

"Say, but look here, Buck, I say, hold on; I've got a writ, and--"

"Hang the writ! Pay your bill like a gentleman, and come along!" exclaimed the Ex-M. C., making himself _scarce!_

It was in vain that the Sheriff stated his "authority," and innocence in the pecuniary affairs of the dinner, for the waiter swore roundly that the other gentleman had paid for all he ordered, and the landlord, who could not be convinced to the contrary, swore that the idea was to gouge him, which couldn't be done, and before the Sheriff got off, he had his wallet depleted of five dollars; and he not only lost his prisoner, but lost his temper, at the trick played upon him by the Hon. Jeremy Diddler.

Governor Mifflin's First Coal Fire.

It is truly astonishing, that the inexhaustible beds--mines of anthracite coal, lying along the Schuylkill river and ridges, valleys and mountains, from old Berks county to the mountains of Shamokin, were not found out and applied to domestic uses, fully fifty years before they were! Coal has been exhumed from the earth, and burned in forges and grates in Europe, from time immemorial, we think, yet we distinctly remember when a few canal boats only were engaged in transporting from the few mines that were open and worked along the Schuylkill--the comparatively few tons of anthracite coal consumed in Philadelphia, not sent away. As far back as 1820, we believe, there was but little if any coal shipped to Philadelphia, from the Schuylkill mines at all.

Our venerable friend, the still vivacious and clear-headed Col. Davis, of Delaware, gave us, a few years ago, a rather amusing account of the first successful attempt of a very distinguished old gentleman, Gov. Mifflin, to ignite a pile of stone coal. The date of the transaction, more's the pity, has escaped us, but the facts of the case are something after this fashion.

Gov. Mifflin, of Pennsylvania, lived and owned a fine estate in Mifflin county, and in which county was discovered from time to time, any quantity of black rock, as the farmers commonly called the then unknown anthracite. Of course, the old governor knew something about stone coal, and had a slight inkling of its character. At hours of leisure, the governor was in the habit of experimenting upon the black rocks by subjecting them to wood fire upon his hearths; but the hard, almost flint-like anthracite of that region resisted, with most obdurate pertinacity, the oft-repeated attempts of the governor to set it on fire. It finally became a joke among the neighboring Pennsylvania Dutch farmers, and others of the vicinity, that Gov. Mifflin was studying out a theory to set his hills and fields on fire, and burn out the obnoxious black rock and boulders. But, despite the jibes and jokes of his dogmatical friends, the old governor stuck to his experiments, and the result produced, as most generally it does through perseverance and practice, a new and useful fact, or principle.

One cold and wintry day, Gov. Mifflin was cosily perched up in his easy-chair, before the great roaring, blazing hickory fire, overhauling ponderous state documents, and deeply engrossed in the affairs of the people, when his eye caught the outline of a big black rock boulder upon the mantle-piece before him--it was a beautiful specimen of variegated anthracite, with all the hues of the rainbow beaming from its lacquered angles. The governor thought "a heap" of this specimen of the black rock, but dropping all the documents and State papers pell-mell upon the floor, he seized the piece of anthracite, and placing it carefully upon the blazing cross-sticks of the fire, in the most absorbed manner watched the operation. To his great delight the black rock was soon red hot--he called for his servant man, a sable son of Africa, or some down South Congo--

"Isaac."

"Yes, sah, I'se heah, sah."

"Isaac, run out to the carriage-house, and get a piece of that black rock."

"Yes, sah, I'se gone."

In a twinkling the negro had obtained a huge lump of the anthracite, and handing it over to the governor, it was placed in a favorable position alongside of the first lump, and the governor's eyes fairly danced polkas as he witnessed the fact of the two pieces of black rock assuming a red hot complexion.

"Isaac!" again exclaimed the governor.

"Yes, sah."

"Run out--get another lump."

"Yes, sah."

A third lump was added to the fire; the company in the governor's private parlor was augmented by the appearance of the governor's lady and other portions of the family, who, seeing Isaac lugging in the rocks, came to the conclusion that the governor was going "clean crazy" over his experiments. It was in vain Mrs. Mifflin and the daughters tried to suspend the functions of the "chief magistrate," over the roaring fire.

"Go away, women; what do you know about mineralogy, igniting anthracite? Go way; close the doors; I've got the rocks on fire--I'll make them laugh t'other side of their mouths, at my black rock fires!"

In the midst of the excitement, as the governor was perspiring and exulting over his fiery operation, a carriage drove up, and two gentlemen alighted, and desired an immediate audience with Gov. Mifflin; but so deeply engaged was the governor, that he refused the strangers an audience, and while directing Isaac to tell the strangers that they must "come to-morrow," and while he continued to pile on more black rocks, brought in by Isaac, in rushed the strangers.

"Good day, governor; you must excuse us, but our business admits of no delay."

"Can't help it, can't help you--see how it blazes, see how it burns!" cried the abstracted or mentally and physically absorbed governor.

"But, governor, the man may be hanged, if--"

"Let him be hanged--hurra! See how it burns; call in the neighbors; let them see my black rock fire. I knew I'd surprise them!"

"But, governor, will you please delay this--"

"Delay? No, not for the President of the United States. I've been trying this experiment for eight years. I've now succeeded--see, see how it burns! Run, Isaac, over to Dr. ----'s, tell him to come, stop in at Mr. S----'s, tell Mr. H---- to come, come everybody--I've got the black rocks in a blaze!" And clapping on his hat, out ran the governor through the storm, down to the village, like a madman, leaving the strangers and part of his household as spectators of his fiery experiments. Just as the governor cleared his own door, a pedler wagon "drove up," and the pedler, seeing the governor starting out in such double quick time, hailed him.

"Hel-lo! Sa-a-a-y, yeou heold on--_yeou the guv'ner_?"

"Clear out!" roared the chief magistrate.

"Shain't deu nothin' of the sort, no how!" says the pedler, dismounting from his wagon, and making his appearance at the front door, where he encountered the two rather astonished strangers--legal gentlemen of some eminence, from Harrisburg, with a petition for the respite of execution.

"Halloo! which o' yeou be the guv'ner?" says the pedler.

"Neither of us," replied the gentlemen; "that was the governor you spoke to as you drove up."

"Yeou dun't say so! Wall, he was pesky mad about som'-thin'. What on airth ails the ole feller?"

"Can't say," was the response; "but here he comes again."

"Now, now come in, come in and see for yourselves," cried the excited Governor of the great Key Stone State; "there's a roaring fire of burning, blazing, black rock, anthracite coal!"

But, alas! the cross sticks having given away in the interim, and the coal being thrown down upon the ashes and stone hearth,--_was all out!_

"Wall," says our migratory Yankee, who followed the crowd into the house, "I guess I know what yeou be at, guv'ner, but I'll tell yeou naow, yeou can't begin to keep that darn'd hard stuff burning, 'less yeou fix it up in a grate, like, gin it air, and an almighty draught; yeou see, guv'ner, I've been making experiments a darn'd long while with it!"

The laugh of the governor's friends subsided as the pedler went into a practical theory on burning stone coal; the _respite_ was signed--hospitalities of the mansion extended to all present, and in course of a few days, our Yankee and the governor rigged up a grate, and soon settled the question--will our black rocks burn?

Sure Cure.

Travel is a good invention to cure the blues and condense worldly effects. When Cutaway went to California, "I carried," said he, "a pile of despondency, and more baggage, boots, and boxes, than would fit out a caravan. After an absence of just fourteen calendar months, I started homewards, and was so boiling over with hope and fond anticipation, that I could hardly keep in my old boots! And all the _dunnage_ I had left, wouldn't fill a pocket-handkerchief, or sell to a paper-maker for four cents!"

Cutaway recommends seeing the _worldy_ elephant, high, for settling one's mind, and scattering goods, gold, and chattels.

Chasing a Fugitive Subscriber.

Printers, from time immemorial--back possibly to the days of Faust--have suffered martyrdom, more or less, at the hands of the people who didn't pay! Many of the long-established newspaper concerns can show a "black list" as long as the militia law, and an unpaid _cash account_ bulky enough to take Cuba! Country publishers suffer in this way intensely. About one half of the "subscribers" to the _Clarion of Freedom_, or the _Universal Democrat_, or the _Whig Shot Tower_, seem to labor under the Utopian notion that printers were made to mourn over unpaid subscription lists; or that they "got up" papers for their own peculiar amusement, and carried them or sent them to the doors of the public for mere pastime! Every publisher, of about every paper we ever examined, about this time of year, has told his own story--requested his subscribers to come forward--pay over--help to keep the mill going--creditors easy--fire in the stove--meal in the barrel--children in bread, butter and shoes--Sheriff at bay, and other tragical affairs connected with the operations attendant upon unsettled cash accounts! But, how many heed such "notices?" Paying subscribers do not read them--such applications do not apply to them--_they_ regret to see them in the paper, and, like honest, common-sensed people, don't probe or meddle with other people's shortcomings. The delinquent subscriber don't read such _calls_ upon his humanity--they are distasteful to him; he may squint and grin over the _notice_ to pay up, and chuckles to himself--"Ah, umph! dun away, old feller; I ain't one o' that kind that sends money by mail; it might be lost, and the man that duns _me_ for two or three dollars' worth of newspapers, _may get it if he knows how_."

Well, the good time has _come_. Printers now may wait no longer; the jig's up--they have found out a _way_ to get their money just as easy as other laborers in the fields of science, art, mechanism, law, physic and religion, get theirs. Let the printer cry _Eureka_.

Doctor Pendleton St. Clair Smith, a patron of the fine arts, best tailors, barbers, boot blacks, and the newspaper press, was a tooth operator of some skill and great pretension. He lived and moved in modern style, and though no man could be more desirous of indulging in "short credit," no man believed or acted more readily upon the principle--

----"base is the slave that _pays_."