The Exorbitancy of Meanness
Few extravaganzas of man or woman lay such a heavy stress upon the pocket-book or purse as meanness. This may seem paradoxical, but it's nothing of the kind. How many thousands to save a cent, walk a mile! How many to cut down expenses, cut off a thousand of the little "filling ins" which go to make us both happy and healthy! Jones refused to let his little boy run an errand for Johnson, and when Jones's house was in a blaze, Johnson forbid him touching his water to put it out. Smith by accident ran his wagon afoul of Peppers's cart, Peppers in revenge "cut away" at Smith's horse; horse ran away, broke the wagon, dislocated Smith's collar-bone; a suit at law followed, and Peppers being a mighty spunky, as well as a powerfully mean man, fought it out four years, and finally sunk every cent he had in the world by the slight transaction. It is a first-rate idea to be economical, but the man who sees and feels, and smells and tastes, entirely through his pocket-book, isn't worth cultivating an acquaintance with. Go in, marry money if you can, save up some, but don't cultivate meanness, for it never pays.
"Taking Down" a Sheriff
Ex-honorable John Buck, once the "representative" of a district out West, a lawyer originally, and finally a gentleman at large, and Jeremy Diddler generally, took up his quarters in Philadelphia, years ago, and putting himself upon his dignity, he managed for a time, sans l'argent, to live like a prince. Buck was what the world would call a devilish clever fellow; he was something of a scholar, with the smattering of a gentleman; good at off-hand dinner table oratory, good looking, and what never fails to take down the ladies, he wore hair enough about his countenance to establish two Italian grand dukes. Buck was "an awful blower," but possessed common-sense enough not to waste his gas-conade – ergo, he had the merit not to falsify to ye ancient falsifiers.
The Honorable Mr. Buck's manner of living not being "seconded" by a corresponding manner of means, he very frequently ran things in the ground, got in debt, head and heels. The Honorable Mr. B. had patronized a dealer in Spanish mantles, corduroys and opera vests, to the amount of some two hundred dollars; and, very naturally, ye fabricator of said cloth appurtenances for ye body, got mad towards the last, and threatened "the Western member" with a course of legal sprouts, unless he "showed cause," or came up and squared the yards. As Hon. John Buck had had frequent invitations to pursue such courses, and not being spiritually or personally inclined that way, he let the notice slide.
Shears, the tailor, determined to put the Hon. John through; so he got out a writ of the savagest kind – arson, burglary and false pretence – and a deputy sheriff was soon on the taps to smoke the Western member out of his boots. Upon inquiring at the United States Hotel, where the honorable gentleman had been wont to "put up," they found he had vacated weeks before and gone to Yohe's Hotel. Thither, the next day, the deputy repaired, but old Mother Yohe – rest her soul! – informed the officer that the honorable gentleman had stepped out one morning, in a hurry like, and forgot to pay a small bill!
John was next traced to the Marshall House, where he had left his mark and cleared for Sanderson's, where the indefatigable tailor and his terrier of the law, pursued the member, and learned that he had gone to Washington!
"Done! by Jeems!" cried Shears.
"Hold on," says the deputy, "hold on; he's not off; merely a dodge to get away from this house; we'll find him. Wait!"
Shears did wait, so did the deputy sheriff, until other bills, amounting to a good round sum, were lodged at the Sheriff's office, and the very Sheriff himself took it in hand to nab the cidevant M. C., and cause him to suffer a little for his country and his friends!
Now, it so chanced that Sheriff F., who was a politician of popular renown – a good, jolly fellow – knew the Hon. Mr. Buck, having had "the pleasure of his acquaintance" some months previous, and having been floored in a political argument with the "Western member," was inclined to be down upon him.
"I'll snake him, I'll engage," says Sheriff F., as he thrust "the documents" into his pocket and proceeded to hunt up the transgressor. Accidentally, as it were, who should the Sheriff meet, turning a corner into the grand trottoir, Chestnut street, but our gallant hero of ye ballot-box in the rural districts, once upon a time!
"Ah, ha-a-a! How are ye, Sheriff?" boisterously exclaims the Ex-M. C., as familiarly as you please.
"Ah, ha! Mr. Buck," says the Sheriff, "glad (?) to see you."
"Fine day, Sheriff?"
"Elegant, sir, prime," says the Sheriff.
"What do you think of Mr. Jigger's speech on the Clam trade? Did you read Mr. Porkapog's speech on the widening of Jenkins's ditch?"
For which general remarks on the affairs of the nation, Sheriff F. put some corresponding replies, and so they proceeded along until they approached a well-known dining saloon, then under the supervision of a burly Englishman; and, as it was about the time people dined, and the Sheriff being a man that liked a fat dinner and a fine bottle, about as well as any body, when the Hon. Mr. Buck proposed —
"What say you, Sheriff, to a dinner and a bottle of old Sherry, at – ? We don't often meet (?), so let's sit down and have a quiet talk over things."
"Well, Mr. Buck," says the Sheriff, "I would like to, just as soon as not, but I've got a disagreeable bit of business with you, and it would be hardly friendly to eat your dinner before apprizing you of the fact, sir."
"Ah! Sheriff, what is it, pray?" says the somewhat alarmed Diddler; "nothing serious, of course?"
"Oh, no, not serious, particularly; only a writ, Mr. Buck; a writ, that's all."
"For my arrest?"
"Your arrest, sir, on sight," says the Sheriff.
"The deuce! What's the charge!"
"Debt – false pretence —swindling!"
"Ha! ha! that is a good one!" says the slight'y cornered Ex-M. C.; "well, hang it, Sheriff, don't let business spoil our digestion; come, let us dine, and then I'm ready for execution!" says the "Western member," with well affected gaiety.
Stepping into a private room, they rang the bell, and a burly waiter appeared.
"Now, Mr. F.," says the adroit Ex-M. C., "call for just what you like; I leave it to you, sir."
"Roast ducks; what do you say, Buck?"
"Good."
"Oyster sauce and lobster salad?"
"Good," again echoes the Ex-M. C.
"And a – Well, waiter, you bring some of the best side dishes you have," says the Sheriff.
"Yes, sir," says the waiter, disappearing to fill the order.
"What are you going to drink, Sheriff?" asks the honorable gent.
"Oh! ah, yes! Waiter, bring us a bottle of Sherry; you take Sherry, Buck?"
"Yes, I'll go Sherry."
The Sherry was brought, and partly discussed by the time the dinner was spread.
"They keep the finest Port here you ever tasted," says the Diddler.
"Do they!" he responds; "well, suppose we try it?"
A bottle of old Port was brought, and the two worthies sat back and really enjoyed themselves in the saloon of the sumptuously kept restaurant; they then drank and smoked, until sated nature cried enough, and the Sheriff began to think of business.
"Suppose we top off with a fine bottle of English ale, Sheriff!"
"Well, be it so; and then, Buck, we'll have to proceed to the office."
"Waiter, bring me a couple of bottles of your English ale," says the Hon. Mr. Buck.
"Yes, sir."
"And I'll see to the bill, Sheriff, while the waiter brings the ale," said the Ex-M. C., leaving the room "for a moment," to speak to the landlord.
"Landlord," says the Diddler, "do you know that gentleman with whom I've dined in 15?"
"No, I don't," says the landlord.
"Well," continues Diddler, "I've no particular acquaintance with him; he invited me here to dine; I suppose he intends to pay for what he ordered, but (whispering) you had better get your money before he gets out of that room!"
"Oh! oh! coming that are dodge, eh? I'll show him!" said the burly landlord, making tracks for the room, from which the Sheriff was now emerging, to look after his prisoner.
"There's for the ale," says the Diddler, placing half a dollar in the waiter's hand; "I ordered that, and there's for it." So saying, he vamosed.
"Say, but look here, Buck, I say, hold on; I've got a writ, and – "
"Hang the writ! Pay your bill like a gentleman, and come along!" exclaimed the Ex-M. C., making himself scarce!
It was in vain that the Sheriff stated his "authority," and innocence in the pecuniary affairs of the dinner, for the waiter swore roundly that the other gentleman had paid for all he ordered, and the landlord, who could not be convinced to the contrary, swore that the idea was to gouge him, which couldn't be done, and before the Sheriff got off, he had his wallet depleted of five dollars; and he not only lost his prisoner, but lost his temper, at the trick played upon him by the Hon. Jeremy Diddler.
Governor Mifflin's First Coal Fire
It is truly astonishing, that the inexhaustible beds – mines of anthracite coal, lying along the Schuylkill river and ridges, valleys and mountains, from old Berks county to the mountains of Shamokin, were not found out and applied to domestic uses, fully fifty years before they were! Coal has been exhumed from the earth, and burned in forges and grates in Europe, from time immemorial, we think, yet we distinctly remember when a few canal boats only were engaged in transporting from the few mines that were open and worked along the Schuylkill – the comparatively few tons of anthracite coal consumed in Philadelphia, not sent away. As far back as 1820, we believe, there was but little if any coal shipped to Philadelphia, from the Schuylkill mines at all.
Our venerable friend, the still vivacious and clear-headed Col. Davis, of Delaware, gave us, a few years ago, a rather amusing account of the first successful attempt of a very distinguished old gentleman, Gov. Mifflin, to ignite a pile of stone coal. The date of the transaction, more's the pity, has escaped us, but the facts of the case are something after this fashion.
Gov. Mifflin, of Pennsylvania, lived and owned a fine estate in Mifflin county, and in which county was discovered from time to time, any quantity of black rock, as the farmers commonly called the then unknown anthracite. Of course, the old governor knew something about stone coal, and had a slight inkling of its character. At hours of leisure, the governor was in the habit of experimenting upon the black rocks by subjecting them to wood fire upon his hearths; but the hard, almost flint-like anthracite of that region resisted, with most obdurate pertinacity, the oft-repeated attempts of the governor to set it on fire. It finally became a joke among the neighboring Pennsylvania Dutch farmers, and others of the vicinity, that Gov. Mifflin was studying out a theory to set his hills and fields on fire, and burn out the obnoxious black rock and boulders. But, despite the jibes and jokes of his dogmatical friends, the old governor stuck to his experiments, and the result produced, as most generally it does through perseverance and practice, a new and useful fact, or principle.
One cold and wintry day, Gov. Mifflin was cosily perched up in his easy-chair, before the great roaring, blazing hickory fire, overhauling ponderous state documents, and deeply engrossed in the affairs of the people, when his eye caught the outline of a big black rock boulder upon the mantle-piece before him – it was a beautiful specimen of variegated anthracite, with all the hues of the rainbow beaming from its lacquered angles. The governor thought "a heap" of this specimen of the black rock, but dropping all the documents and State papers pell-mell upon the floor, he seized the piece of anthracite, and placing it carefully upon the blazing cross-sticks of the fire, in the most absorbed manner watched the operation. To his great delight the black rock was soon red hot – he called for his servant man, a sable son of Africa, or some down South Congo —
"Isaac."
"Yes, sah, I'se heah, sah."
"Isaac, run out to the carriage-house, and get a piece of that black rock."
"Yes, sah, I'se gone."
In a twinkling the negro had obtained a huge lump of the anthracite, and handing it over to the governor, it was placed in a favorable position alongside of the first lump, and the governor's eyes fairly danced polkas as he witnessed the fact of the two pieces of black rock assuming a red hot complexion.
"Isaac!" again exclaimed the governor.
"Yes, sah."
"Run out – get another lump."
"Yes, sah."
A third lump was added to the fire; the company in the governor's private parlor was augmented by the appearance of the governor's lady and other portions of the family, who, seeing Isaac lugging in the rocks, came to the conclusion that the governor was going "clean crazy" over his experiments. It was in vain Mrs. Mifflin and the daughters tried to suspend the functions of the "chief magistrate," over the roaring fire.
"Go away, women; what do you know about mineralogy, igniting anthracite? Go way; close the doors; I've got the rocks on fire – I'll make them laugh t'other side of their mouths, at my black rock fires!"
In the midst of the excitement, as the governor was perspiring and exulting over his fiery operation, a carriage drove up, and two gentlemen alighted, and desired an immediate audience with Gov. Mifflin; but so deeply engaged was the governor, that he refused the strangers an audience, and while directing Isaac to tell the strangers that they must "come to-morrow," and while he continued to pile on more black rocks, brought in by Isaac, in rushed the strangers.
"Good day, governor; you must excuse us, but our business admits of no delay."
"Can't help it, can't help you – see how it blazes, see how it burns!" cried the abstracted or mentally and physically absorbed governor.
"But, governor, the man may be hanged, if – "
"Let him be hanged – hurra! See how it burns; call in the neighbors; let them see my black rock fire. I knew I'd surprise them!"
"But, governor, will you please delay this – "
"Delay? No, not for the President of the United States. I've been trying this experiment for eight years. I've now succeeded – see, see how it burns! Run, Isaac, over to Dr. – 's, tell him to come, stop in at Mr. S – 's, tell Mr. H – to come, come everybody – I've got the black rocks in a blaze!" And clapping on his hat, out ran the governor through the storm, down to the village, like a madman, leaving the strangers and part of his household as spectators of his fiery experiments. Just as the governor cleared his own door, a pedler wagon "drove up," and the pedler, seeing the governor starting out in such double quick time, hailed him.
"Hel-lo! Sa-a-a-y, yeou heold on —yeou the guv'ner?"
"Clear out!" roared the chief magistrate.
"Shain't deu nothin' of the sort, no how!" says the pedler, dismounting from his wagon, and making his appearance at the front door, where he encountered the two rather astonished strangers – legal gentlemen of some eminence, from Harrisburg, with a petition for the respite of execution.
"Halloo! which o' yeou be the guv'ner?" says the pedler.
"Neither of us," replied the gentlemen; "that was the governor you spoke to as you drove up."
"Yeou dun't say so! Wall, he was pesky mad about som'-thin'. What on airth ails the ole feller?"
"Can't say," was the response; "but here he comes again."
"Now, now come in, come in and see for yourselves," cried the excited Governor of the great Key Stone State; "there's a roaring fire of burning, blazing, black rock, anthracite coal!"
But, alas! the cross sticks having given away in the interim, and the coal being thrown down upon the ashes and stone hearth, —was all out!
"Wall," says our migratory Yankee, who followed the crowd into the house, "I guess I know what yeou be at, guv'ner, but I'll tell yeou naow, yeou can't begin to keep that darn'd hard stuff burning, 'less yeou fix it up in a grate, like, gin it air, and an almighty draught; yeou see, guv'ner, I've been making experiments a darn'd long while with it!"
The laugh of the governor's friends subsided as the pedler went into a practical theory on burning stone coal; the respite was signed – hospitalities of the mansion extended to all present, and in course of a few days, our Yankee and the governor rigged up a grate, and soon settled the question – will our black rocks burn?
Sure Cure
Travel is a good invention to cure the blues and condense worldly effects. When Cutaway went to California, "I carried," said he, "a pile of despondency, and more baggage, boots, and boxes, than would fit out a caravan. After an absence of just fourteen calendar months, I started homewards, and was so boiling over with hope and fond anticipation, that I could hardly keep in my old boots! And all the dunnage I had left, wouldn't fill a pocket-handkerchief, or sell to a paper-maker for four cents!"
Cutaway recommends seeing the worldy elephant, high, for settling one's mind, and scattering goods, gold, and chattels.
Chasing a Fugitive Subscriber
Printers, from time immemorial – back possibly to the days of Faust – have suffered martyrdom, more or less, at the hands of the people who didn't pay! Many of the long-established newspaper concerns can show a "black list" as long as the militia law, and an unpaid cash account bulky enough to take Cuba! Country publishers suffer in this way intensely. About one half of the "subscribers" to the Clarion of Freedom, or the Universal Democrat, or the Whig Shot Tower, seem to labor under the Utopian notion that printers were made to mourn over unpaid subscription lists; or that they "got up" papers for their own peculiar amusement, and carried them or sent them to the doors of the public for mere pastime! Every publisher, of about every paper we ever examined, about this time of year, has told his own story – requested his subscribers to come forward – pay over – help to keep the mill going – creditors easy – fire in the stove – meal in the barrel – children in bread, butter and shoes – Sheriff at bay, and other tragical affairs connected with the operations attendant upon unsettled cash accounts! But, how many heed such "notices?" Paying subscribers do not read them – such applications do not apply to them —they regret to see them in the paper, and, like honest, common-sensed people, don't probe or meddle with other people's shortcomings. The delinquent subscriber don't read such calls upon his humanity – they are distasteful to him; he may squint and grin over the notice to pay up, and chuckles to himself – "Ah, umph! dun away, old feller; I ain't one o' that kind that sends money by mail; it might be lost, and the man that duns me for two or three dollars' worth of newspapers, may get it if he knows how."
Well, the good time has come. Printers now may wait no longer; the jig's up – they have found out a way to get their money just as easy as other laborers in the fields of science, art, mechanism, law, physic and religion, get theirs. Let the printer cry Eureka.
Doctor Pendleton St. Clair Smith, a patron of the fine arts, best tailors, barbers, boot blacks, and the newspaper press, was a tooth operator of some skill and great pretension. He lived and moved in modern style, and though no man could be more desirous of indulging in "short credit," no man believed or acted more readily upon the principle —
– "base is the slave that pays."
Dr. P. St. C. Smith "slipped up" one day, leaving the well done community of Boston and the environs, for fields more congenial to his peculiar talents. He stuck the printer, of course. His numerous subscription accounts to the various local news and literary journals, in the aggregate amounted to quite considerable; and the printers didn't begin to like it! Now, it takes a Yankee to head off a Yankee, and about this time a live, double-grand-action Yankee, named Peabody, possibly, happened in at one of the offices, where two brother publishers were "making a few remarks" over delinquent subscribers, and especially were they wrought up against and giving jessy to Dr. Pendleton St. Clair Smith!
"How much does the feller owe you?" quoth Peabody.
"Owe? More than he'll ever pay during the present generation."
"Perhaps not," says Peabody; "now if you'll just give me the full particulars of the man, his manners and customs, name and size, and sell me your accounts, at a low notch, I'll buy 'em; I'll collect 'em, too, if the feller's alive, out of jail, and any where around between sunrise and sunset!"
The publishers laughed at the idea, sensibly, but finding that Peabody was up for a trade, they traced out the accounts, &c., and for a five dollar bill, Mr. Peabody was put in possession of an account of some twenty odd dollars and cents against Dr. P. St. C. Smith.
Now Peabody had, some time previous to this transaction, established a peculiar kind of Telegraph, a human galvanic battery, or endless chain of them, extending all over the country, for collecting bad debts, and shocking fugitives, or stubborn creditors! By a continuation of faculties, causes and effects – shrewdness and forethought peculiar to a man capable of seeing considerably deep into millstones – Peabody couldn't be dodged. If he ever got his feelers on to a subject, the equivalent was bound to be turning up! It struck him that the collection of newspaper bills afforded him a great field for working his Telegraph, and he hasn't been mistaken.
The scene now changes; early one morning in the pleasant month of June, as the poet might say, Dr. Pendleton St. Clair Smith was to be seen before his toilet glass in the flourishing city of Syracuse, – giving the finishing stroke to his highly-cultivated beard. The satisfaction with which he made this demonstration, evinced the sereneness of his mind and the confidence with which he rested, in regard to his newspaper 'bills in Boston. But a tap is heard at his door, and at his invitation the servant comes in, announces a gentleman in the parlor, desirous of speaking to Dr. Smith. The Doctor waits upon the visitor —
"Dr. Pendleton St. Clair Smith, I presume?"
"Ye-e-s," slowly and suspiciously responded that individual.
"I am collector, sir," continued the stranger, "for the firm of Peabody, Grab, Catchem, and Co., Boston. I have a small (!) bill against you, sir, to collect."
"What for?" eagerly quoth the Doctor.
"Newspaper subscriptions and advertising, sir!"
"I a – I a, you a – well, you call in this evening," says the Doctor, tremulously fumbling in his pockets – "I'll settle with you; good morning."
"Good morning, sir," says the collector, – "I'll call."
That afternoon, Dr. Pendleton St. Clair Smith vamosed! He had barely got located in Syracuse, before they had traced him; if he paid the printer, a cloud of other debts would follow, and so he up stakes and made a fresh dive!
"Now," says Dr. P. St. C. Smith, as he dumped himself and baggage down in the beautiful city of Chicago, "Now I'll be out of the range of the duns; they won't get sight or hearing of me, for a while, I'll bet a hat!"
But, alas! for the delusion; the very next morning, a very suspicious, hatchet-faced individual, made himself known as the deputed collector of certain newspaper accounts, forwarded from Boston, by Peabody, Grab, Catchem, & Co. The Dr. uttered a very severe anathema; he looked quite streaked, he faltered; he then desired the collector to call in course of the day, and the bill would be attended to. The collector hoped it would be attended to, and left; so did Dr. P. St. C. Smith in the next mail line.
About one month after the affair in Chicago, Dr. P. St. C. Smith was seen strutting around in Charters st., New Orleans, confident in his security, smiling in the brightness of the scenes around him; he had just negotiated for an office, had already concocted his advertisements, and subscribed for the papers, when lo! the same due bill from Boston appeared to him, in the hand of an agent of Peabody, Grab, Catchem & Co. The Dr. was almost tempted to pay the bill! But, then, perhaps the agent had a hat full of others – from the same place – for larger amounts! The next day the Doctor put for Texas! planting himself in the pleasant town of Bexar, and cursing duns from the bottom of his heart – he determined to keep clear of them, even if he had to bury himself away out here in Texas. But what was his horror to find, the first week of his hanging up in Bexar, that an agent of the firm of Peabody, Grab, Catchem & Co., was there! The Doctor stepped to Galveston; on the way he accidentally met a travelling agent of Peabody, Grab, Catchem & Co. The Doctor took the Sabine slide for Tampico; there he found the "black vomit." He up and off again, for Mobile; his nervous system was much worked up and his pocket-book sadly depleted! There were two alternatives – change his name, size and profession, and live in a swamp; or settle with the firm of Peabody, Grab, Catchem & Co. Dr. Pendleton St. Clair Smith chose the latter; he sought and soon found in Mobile, a veritable agent, duly authorized to receive and forward funds for Peabody, Grab, Catchem & Co., and hunt up and down – fugitives from the printer! The Doctor paid up – felt better, and learned the moral fact that delinquent subscribers are no longer to be the printers' ghosts.