The Re-Union; Thanksgiving Story.

"Behold, for peace I had great bitterness, but thou hast in love to my soul delivered it from the pit of corruption: for thou hast cast all my sins behind thy back."—Isaiah.

A portly elderly gentleman, with one hand in his breeches pocket, and the fingers of the other drumming a disconsolate rub-a-dub upon the window glass of an elegant mansion near Boston Common, is the personage I wish to call your attention to, friend reader, for the space of a few moments. The facts of my story are commonplace, and thereby the more probable. The names of the dramatis personæ I shall introduce, will be theonlypart of my subject imaginary. Therefore, the above-described old gentleman, whom we found and left drumming his rub-a-dub upon the window panes, we shall call Mr. Joel Newschool. To elucidate the matter more clearly, I would beg leave to say, that Mr. Joel Newschool, though now a wealthy and retired merchant, with all the "pomp and circumstance" of fortune around him, could—if he chose—well recollect the day when his little feet were shoeless, red and frost-bitten, as he plodded through the wheat and rye stubble of a Massachusetts farmer, for whom he acted in early life the trifling character of a "cow boy."

Yes, Joel could remember this if he chose; but to the vain heart of a proud millionaire, such reflections seldom come to the surface. Like hundreds of other instances in the history of our countrymen, by a prolonged life of enterprise and good luck, Joel Newschool found himself, at the age of four-and-sixty, a very wealthy, if not a happy man. With his growing wealth, grew up around him a large family. Having served an apprenticeship to farming, he allowed but a brief space to elapse between his freedom suit and portion, and his wedding-day. Joel and his young and fresh country spouse, with light hearts and lighter purses, came to Boston, settled, and thus we find them old and wealthy. In the heart and manners of Mrs. Newschool, fortune made but slight alteration; but the accumulation of dollars and exalted privileges that follow wealth, had wrought many changes in the heart and feelings of her husband.

The wear of time, which is supposed to dim the eye, seemed to improve the ocular views of Joel Newschool amazingly, for he had been enabled in his late years to see that a vast difference ofcasteexisted between those that tilled the soil, wielded the sledge hammer, or drove the jack-plane, and those that were merely the idle spectators of such operations. He no longer groped in the darkness of men who believed in such fallacies as that wealth gave man no superiority over honest poverty! In short, Mr. Newschool had kept pace with all the fine notions and ostentatious feelings so peculiar to the mushroom aristocracy of the nineteenth century. He gloried in his pride, and yet felt little or none of that happiness that the bare-footed, merry cow boy enjoyed in the stubble field. But such is man.

With all his comfortable appurtenances wealth could buy and station claim, the retired merchant was not a happy man. Though his expensive carriage and liveried driver were seen to roll him regularly to the majestic church upon the Sabbath: though he was a patient listener to the massive organ's spiritual strains and the surpliced minister's devout incantations: though he defrauded no man, defamed not his neighbor, was seeming virtuous and happy, there was at his heart a pang that turned to lees the essence of his life.

Joel Newschool had seen his two sons and three daughters, men and women around him; they all married and left his roof for their own. One, a favorite child, a daughter, a fine, well-grown girl, upon whom the father's heart had set its fondest seal—she it was that the hand of Providence ordained to humble the proud heart of the sordid millionaire. Cecelia Newschool, actuated by the noblest impulses of nature, had for her husband sought "aman, not a money chest," and this circumstance had made Cecelia a severed member of the Newschool family, who could not, in the refined delicacy of their senses, tolerate such palpable condescension as to acknowledge a tie that boundthemto the wife of a poor artizan, whatever might be his talents or integrity as a man.

Francis Fairway had made honorable appeal to the heart of Cecelia, and she repaid his pains with the full gift of a happy wife. She counted not his worldly prospects, but yielded all to his constancy. She wished for nothing but his love, and with that blessed beacon of life before her, she looked but with joy and hope to the bright side of the sunny future.

The home of the artizan was a plain, but a happy one. Loving and beloved, Cecelia scarce felt the loss of her sumptuous home and ties of kindred. But not so the proud father and the patient mother, the haughty sisters and brothers; they felt all; they attempted to conceal all, that bitterness of soul, the canker that gnaws upon the heart when we will strive to stifle the better parts of our natures.

Time passed on; one, two, or three years, are quickly passed and gone. Though this little space of time made little or no change in the families of the proud and indolent relatives, it brought many changes in the eventful life of the young artizan and his wife. Two sweet little babes nestled in the mother's arms, and a new and splendid invention of the poor mechanic was reaping the wonder and admiration of all Europe and America.

This was salt cast upon the affected wounds of the haughty relatives. Now ashamed of their petty, poor, contemptible arrogance, they could not in their hearts find space to welcome or partake of the proud dignity with which honorable industry had crowned the labors of the young mechanic.

It was a cold day in November; the wind was twirling and whistling through the trees on the Common; the dead leaves were dropping seared and yellow to the earth, admonishing the old gentleman whom we left drumming upon the window, that—

"Such was life!"

The old gentleman thumped and thumped the window pane with a drearysotto voceaccompaniment for some minutes, when he was interrupted by an aged, pious-looking matron, who dropped her spectacles across the book in her lap, as she sat in her chair by the fireside, and said—

"Joel."

"Umph?" responded the old gentleman.

"The Lord has spared us to see another Thanksgiving day, should we live to see to-morrow."

"He has," responded Mr. Newschool.

"I've been thinking, Joel, that how ungrateful to God we are, for the blessings, and prosperity, and long life vouchsafed to us, by a good and benevolent Almighty."

"Rebecca," said the faltering voice of the rich man, "I know, I feel all this as sensitive as you can possibly feel it."

"I was thinking, Joel," continued the good woman, "to-morrow we shall, God permitting, be with our children and friends once again, together."

"I hope so, I trust we shall," answered the husband.

"And I was thinking, Joel," resumed the wife, "that the exclusion of our own child, Cecelia, from the family re-unions, from joining us in returning thanks to God for his mercy and preservation of us, is cruel and offensive to Him we deign to render up our prayers."

"Rebecca," said the old gentleman, "I but agree with you in this, you have but anticipated my feelings in the matter. I have long fought against my better feelings and offended a discriminating God, I know. Ashamed to confess my stubbornness and frailty before, I now freely confess an altered feeling and better determination."

"Then, Joel, let our daughter Cecelia and her husband join with us to-morrow in rendering our thanks to a just God and kind Providence."

"Be it so, Rebecca. God truly knows it will be a millstone relieved from my heart. I wish it done."

Three family re-unions, three days of Thanksgiving had been held in the paternal mansion of the Newschools, since Cecelia had left it for the humble home of the poor artizan. But their several re-unions were clouded, gloomy, unsocial affairs; there was a gap in the social circle of the Newschool family, as they met on Thanksgiving day, which all felt, but none hinted at. It was hard for a parent to invoke blessings on a portion, but not all, of his own flesh and blood; it was hard to return thanks for those dear ones present, andwonderwhether the absent and equally dear had aught to be thankful for, whether instead of health and comfort, they might not be sorrowing in disease, poverty, and despair! Such things as these, when they obtrude upon the mind, the soul, are not likely to make merry meetings. And such was the position and nature of the re-union upon the late Thanksgiving days, at the Newschool mansion. But better feelings were at work, and a happy change was at hand.

Several carriages had already drove up to the door of Mr. Newschool, Sen., and let down the different branches of the Newschool family. A brighter appearance seemed gathering over the household than was usual of late on Thanksgiving day, in the old family mansion. As each party came, the good old mother duly informed them of the invitation given, and the hope indulged in, that Cecelia and her husband would join the family circle that day, in their re-union.

The proud sisters seemed willing, at last, to cast away their pride, and greet their sister as became Christian and sensible women. The brothers, chagrined at the unmanliness of their conduct, now gladly joined their approval of what betokened, in fact, a happy family meeting. As the clock on old South Church tower pealed out eleven, a pretty, smiling young mother, in plain, but unexceptionable, neat attire, ascended the large stone steps of the Newschool mansion, with a light and graceful step, bearing a sleeping child in her arms.

Another moment, and Cecelia Fairway was in the arms of her old mother; the smiles, kisses and tears of the whole family party were bountifully showered upon poor Cecelia, and her sweet little daughter. Imagination may always better paint such a scene, than could the feeble pen describe it. The deep and gushing eloquence of human nature, when thus long pent, bursts forth, sweeping the meagre devises of the pen before it, like snow-flakes before the mighty mountain avalanche.

Oh! it was a happy sight, to see that party at their Thanksgiving dinner.

Old Mr. Newschool, in his long and fervent prayer to the throne of grace, expressed the day the happiest one of his long life. Quickly flew the hours by, and as the shades of evening gathered around, Francis Fairway was announced with a carriage for his wife's return home. Francis Fairway, the artizan, was a proud, high-minded man, conscious of his own position and merits, and scorned any base means to conciliate the favor and patronage of his superiors in rank, birth, or education. His deportment to the Newschool family was frank and manly; and they met it with a sense of just appreciation and dignity, that did them honor. Francis met a generous welcome, and the evening of Thanksgiving day was spent in a happy re-union indeed. Upon Cecelia's and her husband's return home, she found a small note thrust in the bosom of her child, bearing this inscription—

"Grandfather's Re-union gift to little Cecelia; Boston, Nov., 184-."

The note contained five $1000 bills on the old Granite Bank of Boston, and which were duly placed in the old Bank fire-proof, to the account of the little heir, the enterprise of the artizan having placed him above the necessity of otherwise disposing of Joel Newschool's gift to the grandchild.

Theodore Parker says, the cultivation of man is as noble and praiseworthy a science, as the cultivation of cabbage, or the garden sass! Says brother Theodore, "You don't cast garden-seed in the mire, over the rough broken ground, and exhibit your benefits. No, you dig, level, rake, and then sow your seed, you give them sunshine and water, you tear out the weeds that would choke your infant vegetables—why would you do less for the material man?" Pre-cisely! we pause for an answer, proposals received from the learned—until we go to press.

All of our mercantile cities are overrun with young men who have been bred for the counter or desk, and thousands of these genteel young gents find it any thing but an easy matter to find bread or situations half their time, in these crowded marts of men and merchandise. An advertisement in a New York or New Orleans paper, for a clerk or salesman, rarely fails to "turn up" a hundred needy and greedy applicants, in the course of a morning! In New York, where a vast number of these misguided young men are "manufactured," and continue to be manufactured by the regiment, for an already surfeited market, there are wretches who practise upon these innocent victims of perverted usefulness, a species of fraud but slightly understood.

By a confederacy with some experienced dry goods dealer, the proprietor of one of those agencies for procuring situations for young men,victimsof misplaced confidence are put through at five to ten dollars each, somewhat after this fashion: Sharp, the keeper of the Agency, advertises for two good clerks, one book-keeper, five salesmen, ten waiters, &c., &c.; and, of course, as every steamboat, car and stage, running into New York, brings in a fresh importation of young men from the country, all fitted out in the knowledge box for salesmen, book-keepers and clerk-ships,—every morning, a new set are offered to be taken in and done for. Sharp demands a fee of five or ten dollars for obtaining a situation; victim forks over the amount, and is sent to Sharp number two, who keeps the dry goods shop; he has got through with a victim of yesterday, and is now ready for the fresh victim of to-day; for he makes it a point to put them through such a gamut of labor, vexatious manœuvres and insolence, that not one out of fifty come back next day, and if they do—he don't want them!If the unsuspecting victim returns to the "Agency," he is lectured roundly for his incapacity or want ofenergy!—and advised to return to the country and recuperate.

Jeremiah Bumps having graduated with all the honors of Sniffensville Academy, and having many unmistakable longings for becoming a Merchant Prince, and seeing sights in a city; and having read an account of the great fortunes piled up in course of a few years, by poor, friendless country boys, like Abbot Lawrence, John Jacob Astor, he up and came right straight to Boston, having read it in the papers that clerks, salesmen, book-keepers, and so on, were wanted, dreadfully—"young men from the country preferred"—so he called on thesufferingagent for the public, and paying down hisfee, was sent off to anImporting House, on —— street, where a clerk and salesman were wanted. Jeremiah found his idea of anImporting Houseknocked into a disarranged chapeau, by finding the one in the "present case," a large and luminousstore, filled up with paper boxes and sham bundles; while gaudily festooned, were any quantity of calicoes, cheap shawls, ribbons, tapes, and innumerable other tuppenny affairs.

Nebuchadnezzar Cheatum, the proprietor of this importing and jobbing house, was a keen, little, slick-as-a-whistle, heavy-bearded, shaved and starched genus, of six-and-thirty, more or less; and received Jeremiah with a rather patronizing surveypersonelle, and opened the engagement with a few remarks.

"From the country, are you?"

"Sniffensville, sir," said Jeremiah; "County of Scrub-oak, State of New Hampshire."

"Ah, well, I prefer country-bred young men; they are better trained," said Cheatum, "to industry, perseverance, honest frugality, and the duties of a Christian man. I was brought up in the country myself. I've made myself; carved out, and built up my own position, sir. Yes, sir, give me good, sound, country-bred young men; I've tried them, I know what they are," said Cheatum; and he spoke near enough the truth to be partly true, for hehad"tried them;" he averaged some fifty-two clerks and an equal number ofsalesmen—yearly.

Jeremiah Bumps grew red in the face at the complimentary manner in which Nebuchadnezzar Cheatum was pleased to review the country and its institutions.

"What salary did you think of allowing?" says Jeremiah.

"Well," said Cheatum, "I allow my salesmen three dollars a week the first year, (Jeremiah's ears cocked up,) and three per cent. on the sales they make the second year."

By cyphering it up "in his head," Jeremiah came to the conclusion that thefirstyear wouldn't add much to his pecuniary elevation, whatever the second did with its three per cents. But he was bound to try it on, anyhow.

"Now," said Cheatum, "in the first place, Solomon——"

"Jeremiah, if you please, sir," said the young man.

"Ah, yes, Thomas—pshaw!—Jediah, I would say," continued Cheatum, correcting himself—

"Jeremiah—Jeremiah Bumps, sir," sharply echoed Mr. Bumps.

"Oh, yes, yes; one has so many clerks and salesmen in course of business," said Cheatum, "that I get their names confused. Well, Jeremiah, in the first place, you must learn to please the customers; you must always be lively and spry, and never give an offensive answer. Many women and girls come in to price and overhaul things, without the remotest idea of buying anything, and it's often trying to one's patience; but you must wait on them, for there is no possible means of telling a woman whoshopsfor pastime, from one who shops in earnest; so you must be careful, be polite, be lively and spry, and never let a persongowithout making a purchase, if you can possibly help it. If a person asks for an article we have not got, endeavor to make them try something else. If a woman asks whether four-penny calico, or six-penny delaines will wash, say 'yes, ma'am,beautifully; I've tried them, or seen them tried;' and if they say, 'are these ten cent flannels realShaker flannels? or the ninepence hoseall merino?' better not contradict them; say 'yes, ma'am, I've tried them, seen them tried, know they are,' or similar appropriate answers to the various questions that may be asked," said Cheatum.

"Yes, sir," Jeremiah responded, "I understand."

"And, William——"

"Jeremiah, sir, if you please."

"Oh, yes; well, Jediah—Jeremiah, I would say—when you make change, never take a ten cent piece and two cents for a shilling, but give it as often as practicable; look out for the fractions in adding up, and beware of crossed six-pences, smooth shillings, and what are called Bungtown coppers," said Cheatum, with much emphasis.

"I'm pooty well posted up, sir, in allthat," said Jeremiah.

"And, Jeems—pshaw!—Jacob—Jeremiah! I would say, in measuring, always put your thumbso, and when you move the yardstick forward, shove your thumb an inch or soback; in measuringcloseyou may manage to squeeze out five yards from four and three-quarters, you understand? And always be watchful that some of those nimble, light-fingered folks don't slip a roll of ribbon, or a pair of gloves or hose, or a piece of goods, up their sleeves, in their bosoms, pockets, or under their shawls. Be careful, Henry—Jeems, I should say," said Cheatum.

Being duly rehearsed, Jeremiah Bumps went to work. The first customer he had was a little girl, who bought a yard of ribbon for ninepence, and Jeremiah not only stretched seven-eighths of a yard into a full yard, but made twelve cents go for a ninepence, whichfeatbrought down the vials of wrath of the child's mother, a burly old Scotch woman, who "tongue-lashed" poor Jeremiah awfully! His next adventure was the sale of a dress pattern of sixpenny de-laine, which hewarrantedto contain all the perfections known to the best article, and in dashing his vigorous scissors through the fabric, he caught them in the folds of a dozen silk handkerchiefs on the counter, and ripped them all into slitters! The young woman who took the dress pattern, upon reaching home, found it contained but eight yards, when she paid for nine. She came back, and Jeremiah Bumps got another bombasting! He sold fourpenny calico, and warranted it to wash; next day it came back, and an old lady with it; the colors and starch were all out, by dipping it in water, and the woman went on so that Cheatum was glad to refund her money to get rid of her. Two dashing young ladies, out "shopping" for their own diversions, gave Jeremiah a call; he labored hand and tongue, he hauled down and exhibited Cheatum's entire stock; the girls then were leaving, saying they would "call again," and Jeremiah very amiably said, "do, ladies, do; call again,like to secure your custom!" The young ladies took this as an insult. Their big brothers waited on Mr. Bumps, and nothing short of his humble apologies saved him from enraged cowhides! Jeremiah saw a suspicious woman enter the store, and after overhauling a box of gloves, he thought he saw herpocket a pair. He intercepted the lady as she was going out—he grabbed her by the pocket—the lady resisted—Jeremiah held on—the lady fainted, and Jeremiah Bumps nearly tore her dress off in pulling out the gloves! The lady proved to be the wife of a distinguished citizen, and the gloves purchased at another store! A lawsuit followed, and Mr. Bumps was fined $100, and sent to the House of Correction for sixty days.

How many new clerks Nebuchadnezzar Cheatum has put through since, we know not; but Jeremiah Bumps is now engaged in the practical science of agriculture, and shudders at the idea of a young man from the country beingwantedin a dry goods shop, if they have got to see the elephant that heobserved—in Boston.

Mr. Davenport—the "Ned Davenport" of the Bowery boys—before sailing for Europe and while attached to the Bowery Theatre, was of the lean and hungry kind. In fact he was extremely lean—tall as a may-pole, and slender enough to crawl through a greasedfleute,—to use a yankeeism.

Somebody "up" for Shylock one night, at the Bowery, was suddenly "indisposed" or, in the strongest probability, quite stupefied from the effect of the deadly poisons retailed in the numerous groggeries that really swarm near the Gotham play-houses. Well, Mr. Davenport—a gentleman who has reached a most honorable position in his profession by sobriety and talent—was substituted for the indisposedShylock, and the play went on.

In the trial scene, Mr. Davenport really "took down the house" by his vehemence, and his ferocious, lean, and hungryaspirationsfor the pound of flesh! One of the b'hoys, so identical with the B'ow'ry pit, got quite worked up; he twisted and squirmed, he chewed his cud, he stroked his "soap-lock," but, finally, wrought up to great presence of mind,—our lean Shylock still calling for his pound of flesh,—roars out;—

"S'ay, look a' here,—why don't you give skinny de meat, don't you see he wants it, sa-a-a-y!"

We very naturally infer that "the piece"went off with a rush!

No better specimen of the genus, genuine Yankee nation, can be found, imagined or described, than the skippers of along shore, from Connecticut river to Eastport, Maine. These critters give full scope to the Hills and Hacketts of the stage, and the Sam Slicks and Falconbridges of the press, to embody and sketch out in the broadest possible dialect of Yankee land. One of these "tarnal critters," it is my purpose to draw on for my brief sketch, and I wish my readers to do me the credit to believe that for little or no portion of my yarn or language am I indebted to fertility of imagination, as the incidents are real, and quite graphic enough to give piquancy to the subject.

Last spring, just after the breaking up of winter, a down-east smack or schooner, freighted with cod-fish and potatoes, I believe, rounded off Cape Ann light, and owing to head winds, or some other perversity of a nautical nature, could no further go; so the skipper and his crew—one man, green as catnip—made for an anchorage, and hove the "hull consarn" to. Here they lay, and tossed and chafed, at their moorings, for a day or two, without the slightest indication on the part of the weather to abate the nuisance. So the commander of the schooner got in his little "dug-out," and giving the aforesaid crew special injunctions to keep all fast, he pulled off to shore to take a look around.

Now, it so fell out that in the course of a few hours' time after the departure of the skipper, a snorting east wind sprang up, and not only blew great guns, but chopped up a short, heavy sea, perfectly astonishing and alarming to Hezekiah Perkins, in the rolling and pitching schooner. It was Hez's first attempt at seafaring; and this sort of reeling and waltzing about, as a matter of course, soon discomboberated his bean basket, and set his head in a whirl and dancing motion—better conceived by those who have seen the sea elephant than described. Hez got dea-a-athly sick, so sick he could not budge from the stern sheets, where he had taken a squat in the early commencement of his difficulties. In the mean time, the skipper came down to the beach and hailed the victim:

"Hel-lo! hel-lo!"

Hez feebly elevated his optics, and looking to the windward, where stood his noble captain, he made an effort to say over something:

"Wha-a-t ye-e-e want?"

"What do I want? Why, yeou pesky critter, yeou, go for'ard thar and hist the jib, take up the anchor, put your helm a-lee, and beat up to town!"

This was all very well, provided the skipper was there to superintend, manage and carry out his voluble orders; but as the surf prevented him from coming on board, and the lightness of Hez's head militated against the almost superhuman possibility of carrying out the skipper's orders, things remainedin statu quo, the skipper ashore, and Hez fervently wishing he was too.

"Ain't you a-going to stir round there, and save the vessel?" bawled the excited captain.

"How on airth," groaned the horror-stricken mariner, "how on airth am I to help it?"

"Wall, by Columbus, she'll go clean ashore, or blow eout to sea afore long, sure as death!" responded the skipper; and before he had fairly concluded his augury, sure enough, the halser parted, the schooner slew round and made a bee-linefor Cowes and a market!This rather brought Hezekiah to his oats—he riz, tottering and feeble, on his shaky pins, and crawled forward to get up the jib.

"O ye-s, now yeou're coming about it, yes, yeou be," bawled the almost frantic skipper, as the distance between him and his vessel was increasing. "Put her abeout and head her up the ba-a-y!" But it was no kind of use in talking, for Hezekiah could not raise the jib; and his imperfect nautical knowledge, under such a snarl, completely bewildered and disgusted him with the prospect. So saying over the seven commandments and other serious lessons of youth, Hezekiah resigned himself to the tumultuous elements, and concluded it philosophical and scriptural resignation to let Providence and the old schooner fix out the programme just as they might. It is commonly reported, that our mackerel catchers, when a storm or gale overtakes them on the briny deep, lash all fast and go below, turn in and let their smacks rip along to the best of their knowledge and ability. They seldom founder or get severely scathed; and these facts, or perfect indifference, having entered the head of Hezekiah Perkins, he became perfectly unconcerned as to future developments. Night coming on, the skipper saw his schooner fast departing out to sea, and when she was no longer to be seen, he made tracks for Boston, to report the melancholy facts to the owners of the vessel and cargo, and see about the insurance.

Next morning, the skipper having discovered that the insurance was safe, he found himself in better spirits; so he walked down along the wharves, to take a look out upon the bay and shipping—when lo, and behold, he sees a vessel so amazingly like his Two Pollies, that he could not refrain from exclaiming:

"Hurrah! hurrah! By Christopher Columbus—if thar don't come my old beauty and Hez Perkins, too—hurrah!"

The overjoyed skipper went off into a double hornpipe on a single string; and as the veritable schooner came booming saucily up the bay before a spanking breeze, with her jib spread, the skipper called out in a voice of thunder and gladness:

"Hel-lo! Hez Perkins, is that yeou?"

"Hel-lo! Cap'n, I'm coming, by pumpkins! Clear the track for the Two Pollies!" And putting her head in among the smacks of Long Wharf, Hez let her rip and smash chock up fast and tight. When the captain landed on his own deck, he rushed into the arms of his brave mate Hezekiah, and they had a regular fraternal hug all round—and Hezekiah Perkins, in behalf of his wonderful skill, perseverance and luck, was unanimously voted first mate of the Two Pollies on the spot. It appeared that a change of wind during the night had driven the wandering vessel back into the bay, and Hezekiah, having got over his sick spell by daylight, crawled forward, got up the jib, and actually made the wharf, as we have described.

The philosophy of the present age is peculiarly the philosophy of outsides. Few dive deeper into the human breast than the bosom of the shirt. Who could doubt the heart that beats beneath a cambric front? or who imagine that hand accustomed to dirty work which is enveloped in white kid? What Prometheus was to the physical, the tailor is to the moral man—the one made human beings out of clay, the other cuts characters out of broadcloth. Gentility is, with us, a thing of the goose and shears.

"The pen is mightier than the sword."

Great men are not the less liable or addicted to very small, and very mean, and sometimes veryrascally acts, but they are always fortunate in having any amount of panegyric graven on marble slabs, shafts and pillars, o'er their dust, and eulogistic and profound histories written in memories of the deeds of renown and glory they have executed. An American 74-gun ship would hardly float the mountains oftomeswritten upon Bonaparte and his brilliant career, as a soldier and a conqueror; but how precious few, insignificant pages do we ever see of the misdeeds, tyrannies and acts of petty and contemptuous meanness so great a man was guilty of! Why should authors and orators be so reluctant to tell the truth of a great man's follies and crimes, seeing with what convenience and fluency they willliefor him? We contend, and shall contend, that a truly great man cannot be guilty of a small act, and that one contemptible or atrocious manifestation in man, is enough to sully—tarnish the brightness of a dozen brilliant deeds; but apparently, the accepted notion is—vice versa.

In 1830, there lived in the city of Philadelphia, a barber, a poor, harmless, necessary barber. His antique, or most curious costume, attracted much attention about the vicinity in which he lived, and no doubt added somewhat to the custom of his shop, itself abijouas curious almost as the proprietor. But as our story has but little to do with the queer outside of thebarberor hisshop, and we do not now purpose a whole history of the man, we shall at once proceed to the pith of our subject—the Emperor and the poor Author, or Napoleon and his Spies—and in which our aforesaid Philadelphia barber plays a conspicuous part.

Some of the writers, a few of those partially daring enough to give an impartialexposeof the history of the Bonapartean times, seem to think that Napoleon committed a great error in his accession to the throne, by doubting the stability of his reign, and having pursued exactly measures antipodean to those necessary to seat him firmly in the hearts of the people, and cement the foundation of his newly-acquired power. But we don't think so; the means by which he obtained the giddy height, to a comprehensive mind like his, at once suggested the necessity of vigilance, promptness, and unflinching execution of whatever act, however tyrannous or heartless it might have been, his unsleeping mind suggested—

"Crowns got with blood, by blood must be maintained."

Jealous and suspicious, he sought to shackle public opinion—the fearful hydra to all ambitious aspirants—to know allsecretsof the time and states, and render one half of the great nations he held in his grasp spies upon the other! The most profligate principles of Machiavel sink into obscurity when contrasted with the ImperialEspionageof Napoleon. When no longer moving squadrons in the tented field—whole armies, like so many pieces of chess in the hands of a dexterous player—he sat upon his throne, reclined upon his lounge or smoked in his bath, organized and moved the most difficult and dangerous forces in the world—an army of Spies!

All ages, from that of infancy to decrepitude—all conditions of life, from peer to parvenu—from plough to the anvil—pulpit to the bar—orators and beggars, soldiers and sailors, male and female of every grade—men of the most insinuating address, and women of the most seductive ages and loveliness, grace and beauty were enlisted and trained to serve—in what the pot-bellied, bald-headed little monster of war used to call hisCytherian Cohort!Snares set by these imperial policemen were difficult to avoid, from the almost utter impossibility of suspicioning their presence or power.

In 1808, a learned Italian, noble by birth, in consequence of the movements andexecutionsof Napoleon, found it prudent to shave off his moustache and titles, and change the scene of his future life, as well as change his name. A master of languages and a man of mind, he sought the learned precincts of Leipsic, Germany, where he preserved his incognito, though he was not long in winning the grace, and other considerations due enlarged intellect, from those not lacking that invaluable commodity themselves. Herr Beethoven—the new title of our Italian "mi lord"—conceived the project of convincing the mighty Emperor—the hero of the sword—that so little a javelin as the pen could puncture thesaccontaining allhisgreat pretensions, and let the vapor out; in short, to show the conqueror, that the penwasmightier than his magic sword. Beethoven purposed writing a pamphletmemorial, involving the bombastic pretensions, the gigantic extravagance and arrogant ambition of Bonaparte. The man of letters well knew the ground upon which he was to tread, the danger of ambushed foes, involving such abrochure, and the caution necessary with which he was to produce his work. But Beethoven felt the necessity of the production; he possessed the power to execute a great benefit to his fellow man, and he determined to wield it and take the chances. Though scarcely giving breath to his project—guarding each page of his writing as vigilantly as though they were each blessed with the enchantment of aKoh-i-Noor—a mysterious agency discovered the fact—Napoleon shook in his royal boots, and swore in good round French, when the following missive reached his royal eye:—

Sire(!)—A plot is brewing against your peace; the safety of your throne is menaced by a villainous scribe. My informant, who has read the manuscripts, informs me that he has never seen any thing better or more imposing, and ingenious in argument and force, than the fellow's appeal to all the crowned heads and people of Europe. It is calculated to carry an irresistible conviction of the wrongs they suffer from your imperial majesty to every breast. These manuscripts are fraught with more danger to your Imperial Majesty's Empire, than all the hostile bayonets in the world combined against you, Sire.Leipsic, 1808.Baron De——.

Leipsic, 1808.Baron De——.

Here was a hot shot dangling over the magazines of the mighty man, and the "little corporal" jumped into his boots, and began to set the wheels of his great "expediency" in motion. A message flew here, and another there; a dispatch to this one, and a royal order to that one. A dozen secretaries, and a score ofamanuensiseswere instantly at work, and the alarmed "Emperor of all the French" fairly beat thereveilleupon his diamond-cased snuff box; while, with the rapidity of the clapper of an alarm bell, he issued to each the oral order to which they were to lend enchantment by their rapid quills.

Herr Beethoven was surprised in his very closet! Papers were found scattered all over his little sanctum—the spies had him and his effects, most promptly; but what was the rage and disappointment of the emissaries of the wily monarch, to find neither hair nor hide of the dreadedfiat!Had it gone forth? Was it secreted? Was it written?

They had theman, but his flesh and blood were as valueless as a pebble to a diamond, contrasted with the witchery of thewordshe had invested a few sheets of simple paper with! They searched his clothes—tore up his bed, broke up his furniture, powdered his few pieces of statuary, but all in vain—the sought for, dreaded, and hated documents, for which hisImperial highnesswould have secretly given ten—twenty—fifty thousandlouis—was not to be found! The rage of the inquisitors was terrific—showing how well they were chosen or paid, to serve in their atrocious capacities. The poor scribe was promised all manner of unpleasantfinales, cursed, menaced, and finally coaxed.

"I have written nothing—published nothing, nor do I intend to write or publish anything," was Beethoven's reply.

"Speak fearlessly," said the chief of the inquisitors, "and rely upon a generous monarch's benevolence. My commission, sir, is limited to ascertain whether poverty has not compelled you to write; if that be the case, speak out; place any price upon your work—the price is nothing—I will pay you at once and destroy your documents."

"Your offers, sir," responded the poor author, "are most kind and liberal, and I regret extremely that it isnotin my power to avail myself of them. I again declare, sir, that I have never written anything against the French government—your information to the contrary is false and wicked."

The spies, finding they could not gain any information of the author, by threat or bribe, carried him to France, where his doom was supposed to be sealed in torture and death, in theBastileof the Emperor.

But where was this fearful manuscript—this dreaded scribbling of the God-forsaken, poor, forlorn author? The emissaries of his serene highness had the blood, bones, and body of the wretched scribe, but where was that they feared more than all the warlike forces of a million of the best equipped forces of Europe—the paltry paper pellets of a scholar's brain—thememorialto the crowned heads, and people of the several shivering monarchies of continental Europe?

A few brief hours—not two days—before thepseudoHerr Beethoven was honored by the special considerations and attentions of the Emperor of all the French—the conqueror of a third, at least, of the civilized world—he had conceived suspicions of a man to whom in themost profound confidencehe had revealed a slight whisper of his projects—impressed with the foreshadowing that a mysterioussomethingdangerous was about to menace him, he made way with the manuscripts, to which his soul clung as too dear and precious to be destroyed—he gave them to the charge of a tried friend—and before theCytherian Cohortwere upon the threshold of the author, hismemorialwas snugly ensconced in the obscure and remote secretary of a gentleman and a man of letters, in the renowned city of Prague. The alarm and friend's appearance seemed most opportune—for an hour after the visitation of the one, the other was at hand—the documents transferred and on their way to their place of refuge.

But difficult was the stepping-stone to Napoleon's greatness—the more the mystery of the manuscripts augmented—the more enthusiastic became his research—the more formidable appeared the necessity of grasping them; and the determination, at all hazards, to clutch them, before they served their purpose!

"Bring me the manuscripts"—was thefiatof the Emperor: "I care nothowyou obtain them—get them,bring them here; and mark you, let neither money, danger nor fatigue, oppose my will. Hence—bring the manuscripts!"

Again Leipsic was invested by theCytherian Cohortof the modern Alexander; the rival of Hannibal, the great little commandant of the most warlike nation of the earth. The Baron ——, who was master of ceremonies in this great enterprise, now arrested the secret agent who had given the information of the existence of thememorial. This wretch had received five hundred crowns for his espionage and treachery. His fee was to be quadrupled if his atrocious information proved correct; so dear is the mere foreshadowing of ill news to vaunting ambition and quaking imposters. Bengert, the German spy, was sure of the genuineness of his information—he was much astonished that the Baron had not seized thememorial, as well as the body of the hapless author. The Baron and the treacherous German conferred at length; an idea seemed to strike the spy.

"I have it," he exclaimed, a few days before his arrest. "I saw a friend visit Beethoven; I know they both entertained the same sentiments in regard to the Emperor—that man has the manuscripts."

Where was that man? It was finding the needle in the hay stack—thepebble in the brook. Again the Emperor urged, and theCytherian Cohortplied their cunning and perseverance. Thatfriendof the poor author was found—he was tilling his garden, surrounded by his flower pots and children, on the outskirts of Prague, Bohemia. It was in vain he questioned his captors. He dropped his gardening implements—blessed his children—kissed them, and was hurried off, he knew not whither or wherefore! Shaubert was this man's name; he was forty, a widower—a scholar, a poet—liberally endowed by wealth, and loved the women!

It was Baron ——'s province to find out the weak points of each victim.

"If he has aparticularregard forpoetry, he does love the fine arts," quoth the Baron, "and women are the queens offine arts. I'll have him!"

In the secret prison of Shaubert he found an old man, confined for—he could not learn what. Every day, the yet youthful and most fascinating, voluptuous and beautiful daughter of the old man, visited his cell, which was adjoining that of Shaubert's. As she did so, it was not long before she found occasion to linger at the door of the widower, the poet—and sigh so piteously as to draw from the victim, at first a holy poem, and at length an amative love lay. Like fire into tow did this effusion of the poet's quill inflame the breast and arouse the passions of the lovely Bertha; and in an obscure hour, after pouring forth the soul's burden of most vehement love, the angel in woman's form(!), with implements as perfect as the very jailor's, opened all the bolts and bars, and led the captive forth to liberty! She would have the poet who had entranced her, fly and leave her to her fate! Butpoetryscorned such dastardy—it was but to brave the uncertainty of fate to stay, and torture to go—Bertha must fly with him. She had a father—could she leave him in bondage? No! She had rescued her lover—she braved more—released her parent in the next hour, by the same mysterious means, and giving herself up to the tempest of love, she shared in the flight of the poet. In a remote section of chivalric Bohemia, they found an asylum. But Bertha was as yet but the deliverer from bondage, if not death, of her soul's idol; he, with all the warmth and gratitude of a dozen poets, worshipped at her feet and besought her to bless him evermore by sharing his fate and fortune. There was a something imposing, a something that brought the pearly tear to the heroic girl's eye and made that lovely bosom undulate with most sad emotion. The poet pressed her to his heart—fell at her feet, and begged that if his life—property—children—be the sacrifice—but let him know the secret at once—he was her friend—defender—lover—slave. Another sigh, and the spell was broken.

"Why—ah! why were you a state prisoner—asecretprisoner in the ——?"

"Loved angel," answered the poet, "I scarce can tell; indeed I have not the meresthint, in my own mind, to tell me for what I was arrested and thrown into prison!"

"Ah! sir," sighed the lovely Bertha, "I can never then wed the man I love—I cannot brave the dangers of an unknown fate—at some moment least expected, to be torn from his arms—lost to him forever!"

"We can fly, dearest," suggested the poet, "we can fly to other and more secure lands. In the sunshine of your sweet smile, my dear Bertha, obscurity—poverty would be nothing."

"No," said the girl, "I cannot leave my father—the land of my birth—home of my childhood. I that have given you liberty, may point out a way to deliver you from further restraint. How I learned the nature of your crime, ask not; I know your secret."

"Ah! what mean you?"

"In a foolish hour," continued the lovely Bertha, with downcast eyes and heaving bosom, "you impaled your generous self to save a friend—the friend fled—you were arrested—"

"Good God!" exclaimed the poet, "Herr Beethoven——"

"Gave you possession of——" she continued.

"No! no! no!" interposed the affrighted poet, daring not to breathe "yes," even to the ear of his fair preserver.

"Sir," calmly continued the girl, "I have risked my own life and liberty to preserve yours, I have——"

"I—I know it all, dear—dearest angel, but——"

"Those manuscripts," she continued, fixing her keen but melting gaze upon the poor victim.

"Ha! manuscripts? How learned you this? No, no, it cannot be——"

"It is known—I know it—I learned it from your captors; but for mylove," said the girl, "mad—guilty love—your life would have been forfeited—your house pillaged by the emissaries of the Emperor, in quest of those manuscripts. While they exist, Bertha cannot be happy—Bertha's love must die with her—Bertha be ever miserable!"

"I-a—I will—but no! no! I have no manuscripts! It is false—false!" exclaimed the almost distracted poet.

"Herr Shaubert," said the girl, clasping the hand of the poet, and throwing herself at his feet, "am I unworthy your love?"

"Dear, dear Bertha, do not torture me! do not, for God's sake! Rise; let me at your feet swear, in answer—No!"

"Then, within four-and-twenty hours, let me grasp that hated, damned viper, that would gnaw the heart's core of Bertha. Give me the key of your misery; O! bless me—bless your Bertha; give me those accursed manuscripts, daggers bequeathed you by a false friend, that I may at once, in your presence, give them to the flames; and Bertha, the idol of your soul, be ever more blessed and happy!"

This appeal settled the business of the poet; he walked the room, sighed, tore hismouchoir, oscillated between honor and temptation—the angel form and syren tongue of the woman triumphed. In course of a dozen hours, Bertha, the lovely, enchantingspy, opened the secret drawers of the poet's secretary, and amid carefully-packed literary rubbish, the dreadedmemorialwas found—clutched with the eagerness of a death-reprieve to a poor felon upon the verge of eternity, and with the despatch of an hundred swift relays, the poor author's manuscripts were placed in the hands of the mighty Emperor, and while he read their fearful purport, and flashed with rage or grew livid with each scathing word of thememorial, he hurriedly issued his orders—gain to this one, sacrifice to that one; while he made the spy acountess, he ordered hideous death to the poor poet and despair and misery to his children.

"Fly!" the monarch shouted, "search every one suspected of a hand in this; let them be dealt with instantly—trouble me not with detail, but give me sure returns. Stop not, until this viper is exterminated; egg and tooth; fang and scale; see it done and claim my bounty—fly!"

Thatsnakewas scotched and killed—the few brief pages of an obscure author that drove sleep, appetite and peace from the mighty Emperor, for days and nights—made busy work for his thousands of emissaries—scattered his gold in weighty streams—was read, cursed and destroyed, and all suspected as having the slightest voice or opinion in the secretmemorial, met a secret fate—death or prolonged wretchedness.

Herr Beethoven, the poor author, alone escaped; being overlooked in the hot pursuit of his production, and by the blunder of those having charge of himself and hundreds of other state prisoners—guilty orsuspectedopponents to the vaulting ambition and power of him that at last ended his own eventful career as a helpless prisoner upon an ocean isle—was liberated and lost no time in making his way beyond the reach of monarchs, tyranny and bondage. Beethoven came to America and settled in Philadelphia, where, in the humble capacity of an e-razer of beards and pruner of human mops, he eked out a reasonable existence for the residue of his earthly existence; few, perhaps, dreaming in their profoundest philosophy, that the little, eccentric-attired, grotesque-looking barber, who tweaked their plebeian noses and combed their caputs, once rejoiced in grand heraldic escutcheons upon his carriage panels as a veritable Count, and still later made the throne tremble beneath the feet of a second Alexander!

But God is great, and the ways of our every-day life, full of change and mystery.

The American "Ole Bull," young Howard, one of the most scientific crucifiers of theviolinwe ever heard, gave us a call t'other day, and not only discoursed heavenly music upon his instrument, but gave us the "nub" of a few jokes worth dishing up in our peculiar style. Howard spent last winter in a tour over the State ofMaineand Canada. During thiscoolexcursion, he got way up among thewood-choppers andlog-men of the Aroostook and Penobscot country. These wood-chopping and log-rolling gentry, according to all accounts, must be a jolly, free-and-easy, hard-toiling and hardy race. The "folks" up about there live in very primitive style; their camps and houses are very useful, but not much addicted to the "ornamental." Howard had a very long, tedious and periloustramp, on foot, during a part of his peregrinations, and coming at last upon the settlement of the log-men, he laid up several days, to recuperate. In the largest log building of the several in the neighborhood, Howard lodged; the weather was intensely cold—house crowded, and wood and game plenty. After a hard day's toil, in snow and water, these log-men felt very much inclined, to sleep. A huge fire was usually left upon the hearth, after the "tea things" were put away, Howard gave them achoonor two, and then the woodmen lumbered up a rude set of steps—into a capacious loft overhead, and there, amid the old quilts, robes, skins and straw, enjoyed their sound and refreshing sleep—with a slight drawback.

Among these men of the woods, was a hard old nut, called and known among them as—Old Tantabolus!He was a wiry and hardy old rooster; though his frosty poll spoke of the many, many years he had "been around," his body was yet firm and his perceptions yet clear. The old man was a grand spinner of yarns; he had been all around creation, and various other places not set down in the maps. He had been a soldier and sailor: been blown up and shot down: had had all the various ills flesh was heir to: suffered from shipwreck and indigestion: witnessed the frowns and smiles of fortune—especially thefrowns; in short, according to old man Tantabolus's own account of himself, he had seen more ups and downs, and made more narrow and wonderful escapes, than Robinson Crusoe and Gulliver both together—with Baron Trenck into the bargain!

For the first season, the old man and his narrations, being fresh and novel, he was quite alionamong the woodmen, but now that the novelty had worn off, and they'd got used to his long yarns, they voted him "an old bore!" The old fellow smoked a tremendous pipe, with tobacco strong enough to give a Spaniard the "yaller fever." He would eat his supper, light his pipe—sit down by the fire, and spin yarns, as long as a listener remained, and longer. In short, Old Tantabolus wouldspinthem all to bed, and then make their heads spin, with the clouds ofbaccysmoke with which he'd fill theranche.

Going to bed, at length, on a bunk in a corner, the old chap would wheeze and snore for an hour or two, and then turning out again, between daybreak and midnight, Old Tantabolus would pile on a cord or two of fresh wood—raise a roaring fire—make theranchehot enough to roast an ox, then treat all hands to anotherstiflingwith his oldcalumet, and nigger-head tobacco! Then would commence a—

"A-booh! oo-oo!" by one of the lodgers, overhead.

"Boo-oo-ooh!Old Tantabolus's got that—booh-oo-oo-oo,—pipe of his'n again,—boo-oo-oo!" chimed another.

"A-a-a-chee!oo-oo-augh-h-h-ch-chee!Cuss that—a-chee—pipe. Tantabolus, you old hoss-marine, put out that—a-chee!—darn'd old pipe!" bawled another.

"A'nand?" was the old fellow's usual reply.

"A-boo-ooh-ooh!" hoarse and loud as a boatswain's call, in a gale of wind, would be issued from the throat of an old "logger," as the fumigacious odor interfered with his respiratory arrangements, and then would follow a miscellaneous—

"A-chee-o! Ah-chee!boo-ooh-oo-ooh!" tapering off with divers curses and threats, upon Old Tantabolus and his villanous habits of arousing "the whole community" in "the dead watches and middle of the night," with heat and smoke, no flesh and blood but his own could apparently endure.

At length, a privatecaucuswas held, and a diabolical plan set, to put a summary end to the grievous nuisances engendered by Old Tantabolus—"let's blow him up!"

And this they agreed to do inthiswise. Before "retiring to rest," as we say in civilizedparlance, the lodging community were in the habit of laying in a surplus of firewood, alongside of the capacious fire-place, in order—should a very common occurrenceoccur,—i. e., a fall of snow six to ten feet deep, and kiver things all up, the insiders might have wherewith to make themselves comfortable, until they could work out and provide more. But Old Tantabolus was in the wasteful practice of turning out and burning up all this extra fuel; so the caucus agreed to bore an inch and a quarter hole into a solid stick—pack it with powder—lay it among the wood, and when Old Tantabolusrizto fire up, he'd be blowed out of the building, and disappear—in a blue blaze!Well, poor old man, Tantabolus, quite unconscious of the dire explosion awaiting him, told his yarns, next evening, with greatergustothan usual, and one after another of his listeners finally dropped off toroost, in the loft above, leaving the old man to go it alone—finish his pipe, stagnate the air and go to his bunk, which, as was his wont to do—he did. Stillness reigned supreme; though Old Tantabolus took his usual snooze in very apparent confidence, many of his no less weary companions above—watched for the approachingtableaux!And they were gratified, to their heart's content, for the tableauxcame!

"Now, look out, boys!" says one, "OldTanty'sabout to wake up!" and then some dozen of the upper story lodgers, who had kept their peepers open to enjoy the fun, began to spread around and pull away the loose straw in order to get a view of the scene below. Sure enough, the old rooster gave a long yawn—"Aw-w-w-w-um!" flirted off his "kiverlids" and got up, making a slow move towards the fire-place, reaching which, he gave an extra "Aw-w-w-um!" knocked the ashes out of his pipe—filled it up with "nigger-head," dipped it in the embers, gave it a few whiffs, and then said:

"Booh! cold mornin'; boys'll freeze, if I don't start up a good fire." Then he went to work to cultivate a blaze, with a few chips and light sticks of dry wood.

"Ah, by George, old feller," says one, "you'll catch a bite, before you know it!"

"Yes, I'm blamed if you ain't agoner, Old Tantabolus!" says another, in a pig's whisper.

"There! there he's got the fire up—now look out!"

"He's got the stick—"

"Goin' to clap it on!"

"Now it's on!"

"Look out for fun, by George, look out!"

"He'll blow the house up!"

"Godfrey! s'pose he does?"

"What an infernalwindthere is this morning!" says the old fellow, hearing thebuzzand indistinct whispering overhead; "guess it's snowin' likesin; I'll jist start up this fire and go out and see." But, he had scarcely reached and opened the door, when—"bang-g-g!" went the log, with the roar of a twelve pounder; hurling the fire, not only all over the lower floor, but through the upper loose flooring—setting the straw beds in a blaze—filling the house with smoke, ashes and fire! There was a general and indiscriminaterushof the practical jokers in the loft, to make an escape from the now burning building; but the step-ladder was knocked down, and it was at the peril of their lives, that all hands jumped and crawled out of theranche!The only one who escaped the real danger was Old Tantabolus, the intended victim, whose remark was, after the flurry was over—"Boys, arter this,be careful how you lay your powder round!"

Gen. Houston lives, when at home, at Huntsville, Texas; the inhabitants mostly live, says Humboldt, Beeswax, Borax, or some of the other historians, by hunting. The wolves act as watchmen at night, relieved now and then by the Ingins, who make the wig business brisk by relieving straggling citizens of their top-knots. A man engaged in a quiet smoke, sees a deer or bear sneaking around, and by taking down his rifle, has steaks for breakfast, and a haunch for next day's dinner, right at his door. Vegetables and fruit grow naturally; flowers come up and bloom spontaneously. The distinguished citizens wear buck-skin trowsers, coon-skin hats, buffalo-skin overcoats, and alligator-hide boots. Old San Jacinto walked into the Senate last winter—fresh from home—with a panther-skin vest, and bear-skin breeches on! Great country, that Texas.

"Conscience sakes! but hain't they got a lot of pork here?" said a looker-on in Quincy Market, t'other day.

"Pork!" echoes a decidedlyGreenMountain biped, at the elbow of the first speaker.

"Yes, I vow it's quite as-tonishinghow much pork is sold here andetup by somebody," continued the old gent.

"Et up?" says the other, whose physical structure somewhat resembled a fat lath, and whose generalcontourmade it self-evident thathewas not given much to frivolity, jauntily-fitting coats and breeches, or perfumed and "fixed up" barberality extravagance.

"Et up!" he thoughtfully and earnestly repeated, as his hands rested in the cavity of his trousers pockets, and his eyes rested upon the first speaker.

"You wern't never in Cincinnatty,Iguess?"

"No, I never was," says the old gent.

"Never was? Well, I cal'lated not. Never beenina Pork-haouse?"

"Never, unless you may call this a Pork-house?"

"The-is? Pork-haouse?" says Yankee. "Well, I reckon not—don't begin—'tain't nothin' like—not a speck in a puddle to a Pork-haouse—a Cincinnatty Pork-haouse!"

"I've hearn that they carry on the Pork business pooty stiff, out there," says the old gentleman.

"Pooty stiff? Good gravy, but don't they? 'Pears to me, I knew yeou somewhere?" says our Yankee.

"You might," cautiously answers the old gent.

"'Tain't 'Squire Smith, of Maoun-Peelier?"

"N'no, my name's Johnson, sir."

"Johnson? Oh, in the tin business?"

"Oh, no, I'm notinbusiness, at all, sir," was the reply.

"Not? Oh,"—thoughtfully echoes Yankee. "Wall, no matter, I thought p'raps yeou were from up aour way—I'm from near Maoun-Peelier—State of Varmount."

"Ah, indeed?"

"Ya-a-s."

"Fine country, I'm told?" says the old gent.

"Ye-a-a-s, 'tis;"—was the abstracted response of Yankee, who seemed to be revolving something in his own mind.

"Raise a great deal of wool—fine sheep country?"

"'Tis great on sheep. But sheep ain't nothin' to the everlasting hog craop!"

"Think not, eh?" said the old gent.

"I swowteupucker, if I hain't seen more hogs killed, afore breakfast, in Cincinnatty, than would burst this buildin' clean open!"

"You don't tell me so?"

"By gravy, I deu, though. You hain't never been in Cincinnatty?"

"I said not."

"Never in a Pork-haouse?"

"Never."

"Wall, yeou've hearn tell—of Ohio, I reckon?"

"Oh, yes! got a daughter living out there," was the answer.

"Yeou don't say so?"

"I have, in Urbana, or near it," said the old gent.

"Urbanny! Great kingdom! why I know teu men living aout there; one's trading, t'other's keepin' school; may be yeou know 'em—Sampson Wheeler's one, Jethro Jones's t'other. Jethro's a cousin of mine; his fa'ther, no, hismothermarried—'tain't no matter; my name's Small,—Appogee Small, and I was talkin'——"

"About the hog crop, Cincinnatty Pork-houses."

"Ye-a-a-s; wall, I went eout West last fall, stopped at Cincinnatty—teu weeks. Dreadful nice place; by gravy, they do deu business there; beats Salvation haow they go it on steamboats—bust ten a day and build six!"

"Is it possible?" says the old gent; "but the hogs——"

"Deu beat all. I went up to the Pork-haouses;—fus thing you meet is a string—'bout a mile long, of big and little critters, greasy and sassy as sin; buckets and bags full of scraps, tails, ears, snaouts and ribs of hogs. Foller up this line and yeou come to the Pork-haouses, and yeou go in, if they let yeou, and they did me, so in I went, teu an almighty large haouse—big as all aout doors, and a feller steps up to me and says he:—

"'Yeou're a stranger, I s'pose?'

"'Yeou deu?' says I.

"'Ye-a-a-s,' says he, 'I s'pose so,' and I up and said I was.

"'Wall,' says he, 'ef you want to go over the haouse, we'll send a feller with you!'

"So I went with the feller, and he took me way back, daown stairs—aout in a lot; a-a-a-nd everlastin' sin! yeou should jist seen the hogs—couldn't caount 'em in three weeks!"

"Good gracious!" exclaims the old gent.

"Fact, by gravy! Sech squealin', kickin' and goin' on; sech cussin' and hollerin', by the fellers pokin' 'em in at one eend of the lot and punchin' on 'em aout at t'other! Sech a smell of hogs and fat,brisselsand hot water, I swanteupucker, I never did cal'late on, afore!

"Wall, as fast as they driv' 'em in by droves, the fellers kept a craowdin' 'em daown towards the Pork-haouse; there two fellers kept a shootin' on 'em daown, and a hull gang of the all-firedest dirty, greasy-looking fellersaout—stuck 'em, hauled 'em daown, and afore yeou could say Sam Patch! them hogs were yanked aout of the lot—killed—scalded and scraped."

"Mighty quick work, I guess," says the old gent.

"Quick work? Yeou ought to see 'em. Haow many hogs deu yeou cal'late them fellers killed and scraped a day?"

"Couldn't possibly say—hundreds, I expect."

"Hundreds! Grea-a-at King! Why, I see 'em kill thirteen hundred in teu hours;—did, by golly!"

"Yeou don't say so?"

"Yes,sir. And a feller with grease enough abaout him to make a barrel of saft soap, said that when they hurried 'em up some they killed, scalded and scraped ten thousand hogs in a day; and when they put on the steam, twenty thousand porkers were killed off and cut up in a single day!"

"I want to know!"

"Yes, sir. Wall, we went into the haouse, where they scalded the critters fast as they brought 'em in. By gravy, it was amazin' how thebrisselsflew! Afore a hog knew what it was all abaout, he was bare as a punkin—a hook and tackle in hissnaout, and up they snaked him on to the next floor. I vow they kept a slidin' and snakin' 'em in and up through the scuttles—jest in one stream!

"'Let's go up and see 'em cut the hogs,' says the feller.

"Up we goes. Abaout a hundred greasy fellers were a hacken on 'em up. By golly, it was deth to particular people the way the fat and greaseflew!Twowhacks—fore and aft, as Uncle Jeems used to say—split the hog; one whack, by a greasy feller with an everlasting chunk of sharpened iron, and the hog was quartered—grabbed and carried off to another block, and then a set of savagerous-lookin' chaps layed to and cut and skirted around;—hams and shoulders were going one way, sides and middlins another way; wall, I'm screwed if the hull room didn't 'pear to be full of flying pork—in hams, sides, scraps and greasy fellers—rippin' and a tearin'! Daown in another place they were saltin' and packin' away, like sin! Daown in the other place they were frying aout the lard—fillin' barrels, from a regular river of fat, coming aout of the everlastin' biggest bilers yeou ever did see, I vow! Now, I asked the feller if sich hurryin' a hog through a course of spraouts helped the pork any, and he said it didn't make any difference, he s'pected. He said they were not hurryin' then, but if I would come in, some day, when 'steam was up,' he'd show me quick work in the pork business—knock daown, drag aout, scrape, cut up, and have the hog in the barrelbefore he got through squealin'!

"Hello! Say!—'Squire, gone?"

The old gent was—gone; thelast brickhit him!

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