"A man that is (hic) married (hic) has lost every hope—He's (hic) like a poor (hic) pig with his foot in a rope!O-o-o! dear! O-o-o! dear—cracky!A man that is (hic) married has so (hic) many ills—He's like a (hic) poor fish with a (hic) hook in his gills!O-o-o-o! dear! O-o-o-o! dear—cracky!"
"A man that is (hic) married (hic) has lost every hope—He's (hic) like a poor (hic) pig with his foot in a rope!O-o-o! dear! O-o-o! dear—cracky!A man that is (hic) married has so (hic) many ills—He's like a (hic) poor fish with a (hic) hook in his gills!O-o-o-o! dear! O-o-o-o! dear—cracky!"
In terror of these roaring bacchanalians, who were slowly approaching her, Mrs. Jones stood close in the doorway of a store; the revellers parted at the corner of the street, after many asseverations of eternal friendship, much noise and twattle. One of the carousers came lumbering towards Mrs. J., and she, in some alarm, left her hiding place and dartedpastthe midnight brawler; and to her horror, the fellow made tracks after her as fast as a drunken man could travel, and that ain't slow; for almost any man inside of sixty can run, like blazes, when he is scarce able to stand upon his pins because of the quantity of bricks in his beaver. Mrs. Jones ran towards her dwelling, but before she could reach it, the ruffian at her heels clasped her! Just as she was about to give an awful scream, wake up all the neighbors and police ten miles around, she saw—Jones!Jeff. Jones, her recreant husband!
It was a moment of awful import—the widow was equal to the crisis, however, and governed herself accordingly; proving the truth of some dead and gone philosopher who has left it in black and white, that the widows are always more than amatchfor any man in Christendom!
Jones was loving drunk, a stage that terminates and is a near kin to total oblivion, in bacchanalian revels. Jones had not the remotest idea of where he was—time or persons; his tongue was thick, eyes dull, ideas monstrous foggy, and the few sentences he rather unintelligibly uttered, were highly spiced with—"my little (hic) angel, you (hic), you (hic) live 'bout (hic) here? Can't you ta-take me (hic) home with you, eh? My-my old woman (hic) would raise-rai-raise old scratch if I (hic), I went home to-to-night. (Hic) I'll, I'll go home (hic) in the morning, and (hic) tell her, ha! ha! he! (hic) tell her I've be-be-been to a fire!"
"O, the villain," said Mrs. J. to herself; "but I'll be revenged. Come, sir, go home with me—I'll take care of you. Come, sir, be careful; this way—in here."
"Where the (hic) deuce are—are you going down this (hic) cellar, eh?"
"All right, sir. Come, be careful! don't fall; rest on my arm—there, shut the door."
"Why (hic), ha-hang it a—all; get a light—that's a de—ar!"
"Yes, yes; wait a moment, I'll bring you a light."
Mrs. J. having gotten her game bagged, left it in the dark, and retired to her bed-chamber. Some of the servants, hearing a noise in the basement, got up, stuck their noses out of their rooms, and being convinced that a desperate scoundrel was in the house, raised the very old boy. Poor Jones, in his efforts to get out, run over pots, pans, and chairs, and through him and the servants, the police were alarmed! lights were raised, and Jones was arrested for a burglar!
Never was a man better pleased to find himself in his own domicil, than Jones! It was all Greek to the watchmen and servants; it was a mysterious matter to Jones for a full fortnight—but upon promise of ever after spending his new year's at home, Mrs. J. let the cat out of the bag. Jones surrendered!
We know several folks who have a way of beating round and boxing the compass, from A to Z, and back again, that fairly knocks us into smithereens. One of these characters came to us the other day, and in a most mysterious manner, with the utmost earnestness, solemnity, andhocus pocus, says he—
"Cap'n, (winking,) I wanted to see you—(two winks;) the fact of the business is, (wink, nod, and double wink,) I've wanted to see you, badly; you see, I-a—well, what I-a (two winks)—was about to remark (two nods and a short cough),—that is to say, it don't make much matter, if-a—(wink, wink, wink;) you see it was in this way, I-a—wanted to—a, to tell you that (dreadful lot of winks) I've been—not, to be sure, that it's an uncommon-a thing, (nod, cough, and forty winks,) but no doubt if I-a—the fact is—"
"Well, what in thunder and rosin isthe fact, old boy?" says we.
"The fact is, cap'n, I'd a told you at once, but-a—I don't know why I—shouldn't tho', (wink on wink,)have you got two shillings you won't want to use to-day?"
We hadn't!
"Ha, ha!" said Uncle Joe Blinks, as the subject of summer travel, a jaunt somewhere, was being discussed among the regular boarders in Mrs. Bamberry's spacious old-fashioned parlors; "Ha! ha! ha! ladies, did Mrs. Bamberry ever tell you ofmytour to Saratogy Springs?—last summer was two years."
"No," said several of usneuter genderswho had repeatedly heard all about it, but were desirous that those who had not been thus gratified, especially the ladies, and particularly a Miss Scarlatina, who wasdietingfor a tour to the famed Springs—"tell us all about it, Major."
"Then," said the Major, with his favorite exclamation, "then, by the banks of Brandywine, if I don't tell you. You see, last summer was two years, I came to the conclusion, that I'd stop off business, altogether, brush up a little, and go forth a mite more in the world, and I went. A friend of mine, a married man, was going up north to Saratogy, with his wife and sister—a plaguy nice young woman, the sister was, too; well, I don't know how it was, exactly, but somehow or other, it came into my head, especially as my friend Padlock had asked me if I wouldn't like to go up to Saratogy—that I'd go, and I went. It was odd enough, to be sure," said Uncle Joe, taking a pinch of rappee from his tortoise-shell box—"very odd, in fact, but somehow or other, Mrs. Padlock, being in poor health, and her sister, a rather volatile and inexperienced young woman, you may say—"
"So that you had tobeauher along the way, Uncle Joe?" says several of the company.
"Well, yes; it was very odd, I don't know how it was, but somehow or other, I-a—I-a—"
"Out with it, Uncle Joe—own up; you cottoned to the young lady, gallant as possible, eh?" says the gents.
"Ha! ha! it's a very delicate thing, very delicate, I assure you, gentlemen, for an old bachelor to be on the slightest terms of intimacy with a young—"
"And beautiful!" echoed the company.
"Unexperienced," continued the Major.
"And unprotected," says the chorus.
"Volatile," added the Major.
"And marriageable young lady, like Miss—"
"Miss Catchem," said the Major.
"Catchem!" cried the gents.
"Catchem, that was her name; she was the daughter of a very respectable widow," continued the Major.
"A widow's daughter, eh?" said they all, now much interested in Uncle Joe's journey to Saratoga, and—but we won't anticipate.
"Of a very respectable widow, whose husband, I believe, was a—but no matter, they were of good family, and a—"
"Yes, yes, Uncle Joe," said the ladies, "no doubt of that; go on with your story; you paid attention to Miss Catchem; you grew familiar—you became mutually pleased with each other, and you finally—well, tell us how it all came out, Uncle Joe, do!" they cried.
"Bless me, ladies! You've quite got ahead of my story—altogether! Miss Catchem and I never spoke a word to each other in our lives," said the Major.
"Why, Uncle Joe!" cried the whole party.
"By banks of Brandywine, it's a fact."
"Well, we never!" cried all the ladies.
"Well, ladies, I don't suppose you ever did," Uncle Joe responds. "The fact is, Mrs. Padlock died suddenly the week Padlock spoke to me of going to Saratogy, and he married her sister, Miss Catchem, in course of a few weeks after, himself! I don't know how it was, but somehow or other, I thought it was all for the best; things might have turned out that I should have got tangled up with that girl, and a—"
"Been a married man, now, instead of a bachelor, Uncle Joe!" said the young ladies.
"It's odd; I don't know how it was, ladies; it might have been so, but it turned out just as I have stated."
"Well, well, Major," said an elderly person of the group; "go on; how about Saratoga?"
"I will," says Uncle Joe, again resorting to his rappee, "I will. You see Padlock didn'tgo, it was very odd; but somehow or other, I made up my mind togo, and I went. I calculated to be gone three or four weeks, and I concluded for once, at least, to loosen the strings of my purse, if I never did again; so I laid out to expend three dollars or so, each day, say eighty dollars for the trip; a good round sum, I assure you, to fritter away; but, by banks of Brandywine, I was determined todoit, and I did. It was very odd, but the first person I met at New York was an old friend, a schoolmate of mine. I was glad to see him, and sorry enough to learn that he had failed in business—had a large family—poor—in distress. It was very odd, but somehow or other, we dined at the hotel together—had a bottle of Madeira, and I a—well, I loaned—yes, by banks of Brandywine, I gave the poor fellow a twenty dollar bill, shook hands and parted; yes, poor Billy Merrifellow, we never met again; he—he died soon after, in distress, his family broke up—scattered; it was very odd; poor fellow, he's gone;" and Uncle Joe again had recourse to his rappee, while a large tear hung in the corner of his full blue eye. Closing his box, and wiping his face with hispongee, the Major continued:
"Next morning I called for my bill. I was astonished to find that a couple of bottles of good wine, two extra meals, and something over one day's board, figured up the round sum of ten dollars. I was three days out, so far, and my pocket-book was lessened of half the funds intended for a month's expenses! By banks of Brandywine, thinks Major, my boy, this won't do; you must economize, or you shall be short of your reckonings before you are a week out of port. That morning at the steam-boat wharf I meets a young man very genteelly dressed; he looked in deep distress about something. It was very odd, I don't know how it was, but somehow or other, he came up to me and asked if I was going up the river, and I very civilly told him I was; then, he up and tells me he was a stranger in the city, had lost all his money by gambling, was in great distress—had nothing but a valuable watch—a present from his deceased father, a Virginia planter, and a great deal more. He begged me to buy the watch, when I refused at first, but finally he so importuned me, and offered the watch at a rate so apparently below its real value that I up and gave him forty dollars for it, thinking I might in part, indemnify my previous extravagance by this little bit of a trade. It was very odd; I don't know how it was, but somehow or other, upon my arrival at Saratogy, I found that watch wasn't worth the powder that would blow it up! I was imposed upon, cheated by a scoundrel! Here I was, four days from home, and my whole month's outfit nigh about gone. In the stage that took us from the boat to the Springs, rode a very respectable youngish-looking woman, with a very cross child in her arms; we had not rode far before I found the other passengers, all gentlemen, apparently much annoyed by the child; for my part I sympathized with the poor woman, got into a conversation with her—learned she was on her way to Saratogy to see her husband, who was engaged there as a builder. Upon arriving at Saratogy, the young woman requested me to hold her child—it was fast asleep—until she stepped over to a new building to inquire about her husband. I did so; she went away, and I never saw her from that to this!"
A loud and prolonged laugh from his auditors followed thistableauin Uncle Joe's story. A little more rappee, and the Major proceeded:
"Well, it was very odd, I don't know how it was, but somehow or other I was left with the child, and a plaguy time had I of it; the town authorities refused to take charge of it, nobody else would; so by Brandywine, there I was; the people seemed to be suspicious of me—sniggered and went on as though I knew more about the woman and her child than I let on. In short, I had to father the child, and provide for it, and I did," said the Major, quite patriotically.
"Well, never mind, Uncle Joe," said Mrs. Bamberry; "that boy may pay you yet—pay you for all your trouble; he's growing nicely, and will make a fine man."
"So you really had to keep the child!" cried several.
"O yes," says the Major; "I was in for it; I got a nurse and had the youngster taken care of. The hotels were crowded, very uncomfortable, rooms wretched, small, damp, and dirty. The landlords were quite independent, and the servants the most impudent set of extorting varlets I ever encountered! To keep from starving, I did as others—bribed a waiter to keep my plate supplied. At night they had what they called 'hops!' in other words, dances, shaking the whole house, and raising such a noise and hullabaloo, with cracked horns, squeaky fiddles—bawling and yelling, that no sailor boarding house could be half so disturbant of the peace. By banks of Brandywine, I got enough of suchfolderols; at the end of the week I asked for my bill, augmented by some few sundries—it made my hair stand up. Now what do you suppose my bill was, for one week, board, lodging, servants'bribesand sundries? I'll tell you," said the Major, "for you never could guess it—it was forty-one dollars, fifty cents. I took myprotege, bag and baggage, and started for home. I was absent on this memorable tour to Saratogy just two weeks, and by banks of Brandywine, if the expense of that tour—not including the timewasted, vexation, bother, mortification of feelings, fuss, and rumpus—was but a fraction less than three hundred dollars! Four times the cost of my anticipated trip, lessened half the time, with fifty per cent. more humbug about it than I ever dreamed of!"
Miss Scarlatina agreed with the rest of the company, that it cost Uncle Joe Blinks more to go to Saratogy than it came to, and they all concluded—not to go there themselves, just then—any how!
Had been spinning old Mrs. Tartaremetic any quantity of salty yarns; she was quite surprised at Mr. Ringbolt's ups and downs, trials, travels and tribulations. Honest Jack (!) had assured the old dame that he had sailed over many and many cities, all under water, and whose roofs and chimneys, with the sign-boards on the stores, were still quite visible. He had seen Lot's wife, or the pillar of salt she finally was frozen into!
"And did you see that—Lot's wife?" asked the old lady.
"Yes, marm; but 'tain't there now—the cattle got afoul of the pillar of salt one day, and licked it all up!"
"Good gracious! Mr. Ringbolt!"
"Fact, marm; I see'd 'em at it, and tried to skeer 'em away."
"Well, Mr. Ringbolt, you've seen so much, and been around so, I'd think you would want to settle down, and take a wife!"
Few incidents of the campaign in Mexico seem so mixed up and indefinite as that relative to the taking of Huamantla, and the death of that noble and chivalric officer, Capt. Walker. In glancing over the papers of Major Mammond, of Georgia, which he designates the "Secondary Combats of the Mexican War," we observe that he has given an account of the engagement at Huamantla, and the fall of Walker. We believe the Major's account, compiled as it is from "the documents," to be in the main correct, but lacking incidental pith, and slightly erroneous in the granddenouement, in which our gallant friend—whose manly countenance even now stares us in the face, as if in life he "yet lived"—yielded up the balance of power on earth.
We have taken some pains, and a great deal of interest surely, in coming at the facts; and no time seems so proper as the present—several of the chivalric gentlemen of that day and occasion, being now around us—to give the story its veritable exhibition of true interest.
Capt. S. H. Walker was a Marylander, a young man of the truest possible heroism and gallantry. He entered upon the campaign with all the ardor and enterprise of a soldier devoted to the best interests of his country. He commanded a company of mounted men, whose bravery was only equalled by his own, and whose discipline and hardiness has been unsurpassed, if equalled, by any troops of the world. We shall skip over the thousand and one incidents of the line of action in which Walker, Lewis, and their brave companions in arms did gallant service, to come at the sanguinary and truly thrillingdenouement.
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!
Skinflint and old Jack Ringbolt had a dispute on Long Wharf, a few days since, upon a religiouspint. Jack argued the matter upon aspeciebasis, 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 menshouldshare 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!"
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 hersuds, 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 hermouchoirbeing touched, tossed, or opened, after it entered her camphorated drawers in her highly-perfumedboudoir.
"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 mypapier macheblack 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, tickledblondereplies.
"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 blackpapier machebureau. 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 myboudoir, open the rose-wood clothes case, bring down the skirts, a dozen or two of themouchoirs, 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 apastile, there's such an odor in the room. Do yousmell, 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 witha 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 aspangle, 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 beentouchedby 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!
Old Ben. Franklin said it was his opinion that, between imprisonment and being at large in debt to your neighbor, there was nodifferenceworthy 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 candunto death, or stand a deadlydun, possesses talents no Christian need envy; for, next to Lucifer, we look upon the confirmed "diddler" and professionaldun, 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 theindefatigabletell his own story:
"You see, Cutaway dealt with me, and though he knew I was dead set againstcreditinganybody, 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 tocharge 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 confirmeddiddler; 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 wasmad, I determined to break one of my 'fixed principles,' andgo 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 thedebt, 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 ofgoingto 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.
"'Heis,' said I, 'the cleverest, most perfectly-at-homediddlerin town.'
"'Well,' said Van Nickem, 'Cutaway acknowledges the debt, says he's rather straightened just now, but if you'll give him a little moretime, 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 toforknow, at last; it's well you come, for I'd beendownon you on Monday, bright and early!'"
"You didn't say that to him, did you?" we observed.
"O, bless you,no. I saidthattomyself, but I methimwith 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 ofhimfor 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 mightruethat,' said Van. 'He'd sue you for an assault, and give you trouble and expense.'
"'Then I suppose I can do nothing, eh?—thelawbeingmadefor 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 hehadany 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 achargemade 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 thewritappeared. 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 theforceof that moral,saltwon't save him.
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?
We shall never forget, and always feel proud of the fact, that weknewso great an every-dayPlatoas 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 theAlamo, in Texas—a little incident, of his being taken up in New Orleans, one night, by agen 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 hewasthe 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 ofcartinghimself 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 ofequipagecalculated 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 wouldpayto 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 theBar, one of those old-fashionedslattedcoops, 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 theirtoddy, 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 highlyincensedby 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 travellingbarberhad stirred up in the very face of the man of law, logic, and legal lore. He swelled up, blowed and strutted about like amiffedgobbler 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,[B]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!"