A Juvenile Joe Miller
We observed a small transaction last Wednesday noon, on Hanover street, that wasn't so coarse for an urchin hardly out of his swaddling clouts. He was a cunning-looking little fellow, and poking his head into a shoe shop, he bawls out in a very keen, fine, silvery voice —
"S-a-a-y, Mister-r-r – "
"Eh? – what?" says the shop-keeper.
"Somebody's got your boots out here!"
Supposing, of course, that somebody was pegging away with a bunch of his wares at the door, Lapstone rushes out and cries —
"Where?"
"There," says the shaver; "they're there – somebody's got 'em – hung up 'long your window there."
Lapstone seized a box lid to give the juvenile joker a flip, but he scooted, grinning and ha! ha! – ing in the most provoking strain.
"Selling" a Landlord
During the great gathering of people in Quakerdom, while the Whigs were dovetailing in Old Zack, an artful dodger, a queer quizzing Boston friend of mine, thought a little side play wouldn't be out of the way, so to work he goes to get up a muss, and I'll tell you how he managed it, nice as wax.
Among the Boston delegates – self-constituted, a la Gen. Commander – was a certain gentleman, remarkable for his probity, decorum, and extreme sensitiveness. Well, A., the wag, and B., the victim, landed together, but selected, in the general overflow and hurly-burly, different lodgings. Next morning, A. finds B. stowed away in – 's Hotel, fine as a fiddle, snug as a bug, in a good room, and doing about as well as could be expected. A. had had indifferent luck, and the quarters he had lit upon were any thing but comfortable, the inmates of the Hotel being stowed away in tiers, like herrings in a box. A. thought he'd oust his innocent and unsuspecting friend, and crack his joke, if it cost a law suit, just for the sake of variety.
With the address, and partly the dress – a white hat – of a man of the mace, A. steps up to the bar of – 's Hotel, and after carefully scrutinizing the register, finds the autograph of the victim, then smiles suspiciously, enough to say to the observant bar-keeper —
"Aha! I've found him!" Then leaning cautiously forward towards that person, says A. —
"Is this man here yet? Is he in the house?"
"I b'leave he is, sur, – I know he is, sur," says the Milesian, overlooking the register himself.
"Come here last night?" continues A., in his suspicious strain.
"He did, sur!" answers the grog-mixer.
"Has nothing but a valise and umbrella?" says A.
"Nothing else, sur, I believe," is the reply.
"That's him! that's him! I've found him!" exultantly exclaims A., while the bar-keeper and landlord, who had now come forward, eagerly wanted to know if any thing was wrong with the gentleman whose arrival was being discussed.
"Step aside, sir," says A. to the proprietor; "I don't want any disturbance made, at such a time; it might do your fine establishment more harm than good; but, there is a person stopping in your house that I have followed from Boston; I have kept my eye on his movements(!); I know his designs, his practices, well; I'm on his track – he dodged me last night, but I've found him – "
"Well, do you pretend to assert that this man (scrutinizing the register) is a pick-pocket, a thief, or something of the kind, sir?" earnestly inquired the proprietor.
"You keep mum, sir," said A., coolly tapping the lappel of the landlord's coat – "I've got him safe! Let him rest for awhile – I've got him! Do you understand?" says the wag, winking a knowing, significant wink at the landlord.
"No, cuss me if I do understand you, sir!" sharply replies the landlord. "If there is a dangerous or disreputable person in my house, sir, I would thank you to tell me, sir, and I will soon put him where the dogs won't bite him, sir!"
"There is no use of unnecessary alarm, my friend," says A., in a low tone; "the truth is, this person whom I have followed here, has made a heavy draw on one of our Boston banks, by means of certain checks and certificates, and – "
"Oho! That's it, eh?" interposes the landlord, beginning to see his guest in a more dignified light, that of a splendid thief; so his rigid frown, called in play by the supposition that a petty rascal was on his premises, subsided into a wise smile, which A. interrupts with —
"You've hit it; but keep quiet! Don't let us go too far before we're sure the bird is in our cage. He's worth attending to; I'm not sure he's got the abstracted money about him; but when he settles with you, just notice the size of his wallet, and its contents; may have an officer handy, if you like. If he has a large roll of notes, especially on the Traders' Bank, nab him, and keep him until I come," said A.
"Where do you stop, sir?" inquired the landlord.
"At the – , Chestnut street," A. replies.
"Shall be attended to, sir, I warrant you. Is there a reward out, sir, for this person?" says the landlord.
"O! no; it has all been kept quiet. Policy, you see; he left in such a hurry, he thought he'd be lost sight of in this crowd here in your city. If he has the money, we'll make 'a spec,' you understand?"
"I see, I see," said the befogged landlord; "I'll keep a sharp look out for him, and let you know the moment I find him fairly out."
That afternoon, as B. called for his bill at the bar of – 's Hotel, the landlord was about, all in a twitter, with two policemen in the distance, and sundry especial friends hanging about, to whom the landlord had unbosomed the affair. All were anxiously watching the result of the business. B. hands forth his capacious wallet, stuffed with "documents" of the Traders' Bank, of Boston, – from which institution he had drawn a pile of funds, to invest in coal at Richmond, – and no sooner did B. place an X, of the Traders' Bank, upon the bar, than the excited landlord's eyes danced like shot on a hot shovel, and giving the constables the cue, poor B. found himself waited upon, in a brace of shakes, by those two custodians, while the landlord grabbed the wallet out of B.'s hand, with a suddenness that completely mesmerized him.
"Gentlemen," says the landlord to the officers, "do your duty!"
"Why, look here!" says B., squirming about in the grasp of the officers, and reaching over for the landlord and his wallet – "what the thunder are you about? Come, I say, none of your darn'd nonsense now; let me go, I tell you, and hand back that wallet, Mister – ."
But B. was "a goner." They favored him with no explanation, of course, and were about trotting him forth to the Mayor's office, when a well known Anthracite merchant came in, in quest of B. Some inquiry followed, explanation ensued, and the result was, that after poor B. got a little reconciled to the joke, he joined issue with a laughing chorus at the expense of the sold landlord, who, in consideration of all hands keeping mum, put the party through a course of juleps.
I may as well observe, that I regret there is no particular moral to this sketch.
Scientific Labor
"Bob, what yer doing now?"
"Aiding Nat'ral History."
"Aiding Nat'ral History – what do yer mean by that?"
"Why every time the kangaroo jumps over the monkey, I hold his tail up."
Who was that Poor Woman?
I do not know a feminine – from the piney woods of Maine to the Neuces – so given to popularity, newspaper philippics, and city item bombards, as Aunt Nabby Folsom, of the town of Boston. The name and doings of Aunt Nabby are linked with nearly all popular cabals in Faneuil Hall, the "Temple," "Chapel," or Melodeon – from funeral orations to political caucusses – Temperance jubilees to Abolition flare ups; for Aunt Nabby never allows wind, weather or subject, time, place or occasion, to prevent her "full attendance." The police, and over-zealous auditors, at times snake her down or crowd her old straw bonnet, but Aunt Nabby is always sure of the polite attention of the "Reporters," and shines in their notes, big as the biggest toad in the puddle.
Indeed, Aunt Nabby is one of 'em! – a perfect she-male Mike Walsh. She will have her say, though a legion of constables stood at the door; her principal stand-point is the freedom of speech and woman's rights, and she goes in tooth and nail agin law, Marshal Tukey, and the entire race-root and rind of the Quincys – particularly strong! Aunt Nabby is subject to a series, too tedious to mention, of "sells" by the quid nuncs and rapscallions of the day, and one of these "sells" is the pith of my present paper.
It so fell out, when Jenny Lind arrived here, about every fool within five-and-fifty miles ran their heels and brazen faces after the Nightingale and her carriage wherever she went, from her bed-chamber to her dinner table, from her drawing-room to the Concert Hall. It took Barnum and his whole "private secretary" force and equal number of policemen and servants, besides Stephens himself, of the Revere, and his bar-keeper, to keep the mob from rushing pell-mell up stairs and surrounding Jenny as Paddy did the Hessians.
Now and then a desperate fellow got in – had an audience, grinned, backed down and went his way, tickled as a dog with two tails. Others were victimized by notes from Barnum (!) or Miss Lind's "private secretary," offering an interview, and many of these transactions were "rich and racy" enough, in all conscience, for the pages of a modern Joe Miller. But Aunt Nabby Folsom's time was about as rich as the raciest, and will bear rehearsing – easy.
"Good morning, sir," said a pleasing-looking, neatly-dressed, elderly lady, to the two scant yards of starch and dickey behind Stephens' slab of marble at the Revere.
"Good morning, ma'am," responded the clark, who, not knowing exactly who the lady was, jerked down his well-oiled and brushed "wig and whiskers" to the entire satisfaction of the matronly lady, who went on to say —
"I wish to see Miss Lind, sir."
"Guess she's engaged, ma'am."
"Well, but I've an invitation, sir, from Miss Lind, to call at 9 A. M. to-day. I like to be punctual, sir; my time is quite precious; I called precisely as desired; Miss Lind appointed the time; and – "
"Oh, very well, very well, ma'am," said the clark, with a flourish, "if Miss Lind has invited you – "
"Why, of course she has! Here's her – "
"O, never mind, ma'am; all correct, I presume."
The "pipes" and bells soon had the attendance of a gang of white-jacketed, polish-faced Paddies, and the elderly lady was marshalled, double-file, towards the apartments of the Nightingale.
Jenny had but just "turned out," and was "feeding" on the right wing and left breast of a lark, the leg of a canary, "a dozen fried" humming bird eggs – her customary fodder of a morning.
The servants passed the countersigns, and the elderly lady was admitted – the Nightingale, without disturbing the ample folds of her camel's hair dressing-gown – a present from the Sultan of all the Turkies, cost $3,000 – motioned the matron to squat, and as soon as she got her throat in talking order, said —
"Goot mornins."
"How do you do?" responds the old lady.
"Pooty well, tank'ees. You have some breakest? No!"
"No, ma'am. I've had my breakfast three hours ago."
"Yes? indeed! you rise up early, eh? – Well, it is goot for ze hels, eh?"
"So my doctor says," responded the matron. "But I like to get up and be stirring around."
"Ah! yes; you stir around, eh? What you stir around?"
"Well, Miss Lind, I'll tell you what I stir around. I-stir-the-monsters (Miss Lind looks sharp) who-try-to-trample-on-the-universal-rights-of-woman! (The matron 'up' and gesticulating like the brakes of an engine – Miss Lind drops her eating tools – eyes of the two servants bulge out!) A-n-d I-stir-the-demagogues-who-assemble-in-Faneuil-Hall (down with the brakes!), to prevent-the-freedom-of-speech (rush upon the brakes!), a-a-n-d-put-me-down!"
It was evident that the appetite of the Nightingale was getting spoiled – she looked suspicious, and, just in time to prevent the female orator – who was no other personage, of course, than Aunt Nabby Folsom, from ripping into a regular caucus fanfaronade of gamboge and gas, a knock upon the door announced a "call" for Miss Lind, to dress and appear to a fresh lot of bores – yclept the Mayor and his suit of Deacons, soup, pork and bean-venders.
"Ah! yes; I will be ready in one min't. Madame, you will please come again; once more, adieu – good mornins – adieu!"
And Aunt Nabby, in spite of her ancient teeth, found herself bowed – half way down stairs – into the hall, and clean out doors, before she caught her breath to say another word upon the interminable subject of the freedom of speech and woman's rights!
But Aunt Nabby "blowed" – O! didn't she blow to the various tea and toast coteries, scandal and slang express women – and the various knots of anxious crowds who stood about Bowdoin Square during the Lind mania! Aunt Nabby had had a genuine tete-a-tete with the Nightingale – and, ecod, an invitation to call again! But Jenny Lind, and her cordon of sentinels, secretaries and suckers, were "fly" for the old screech owl, when again and again she beset the clark and the stairways of the Revere. Though Aunt Nabby hung on and growled dreadfully, she finally caved in and kept away.
When Jenny Lind gave the proceeds of one concert to charitable purposes, among the items set down in the list was – "A poor woman —one hundred dollars!"
"Why, it's you, of course," said a quid-nunc, to Aunt Abby, as she held the Evening Transcript in her hands, in the store of Redding & Co., and observed the interesting item above alluded to.
"Well, so I think," says Aunt Nabby. "If I ain't a poor woman, and a var-tuous woman, and a good and true woman (down came her brakes on the book piles), I'd like to know where —where, on this univarsal yearth (down with the brakes), you'd find one! One hundred dollars to a poor woman," she continued, reading the item. "I must be the person – yes, Abigail, thou art the man!" she concluded in her favorite apothegm.
The quid gave Abby the residence of the Agent (!) who was to disburse the Lind charities, and away went Abby to the Agent, who happened to be an amateur joker; knowing Aunt Abby, and smelling a "sell," he told the old 'un that Mr. Somerby, of No. – Cornhill, the joker of the Post, was the Agent, and would shell out next morning, at nine o'clock. At that hour, S. had Aunt Nabby in his sanctum. He knew the ropes, so assured Abby that there was a mistake; Charles Davenport, of Cornhill, rear of Joy's building, was the man. Charles D. informed Aunt Nabby, that he had declined to disburse for Miss Lind, but that Bro. Norris, of the Yankee Blade, had the pile, and was serving it out to an excited mob. Norris declared that she was in error. She was not, by a jug full, the only, poor woman in town, and didn't begin to be the poor woman set forth in Miss Lind's schedule! But Aunt Nabby wasn't to be done! She besieged Miss Lind – followed her to the cars – mounted the platform – Jenny espied her, and to avoid a harangue on the freedom of speech and woman's rights, hid her head in her cloak. The last exclamation the Nightingale heard from the screech owl, was —
"Miss Jane Lind – who was that poor wom-a-n?"
Infirmities of Nature
Some folks are easily glorified. We once knew a man who became so elated because he was elected first sergeant in the militia, that he went home and put a silver plate on his door. Ollapod, in speaking of this kind of people, makes mention of one Sabin, who was so overjoyed the first time he saw his name in the list of letters, advertised by the post-office, that he called his friends together and put them through on woodcock.
Andrew Jackson and his Mother
It is a most singular, or at least curious fact, connected with the histories of most all eminent men, that they were denied – by the decrees of stern poverty, or an all-wise Providence – those facilities and indulgences supposed to be so essentially necessary for the future success and prosperous career of young men, but acted as "whetstones" to sharpen and develop their true temper! The fact is very vivid in the early history of Andrew Jackson – a name that, like that of the great, godlike Washington, must survive the wreck of matter, the crush of worlds, and, passing down the vista of each successive age, brighter and more glorious, unto those generations yet to come, when time shall have obliterated the asperities of partisan feeling, and learned to deal most gently with the human frailties of the illustrious dead.
Andrew Jackson, senior, emigrated from Ireland in 1765, with his wife and two boys – Hugh and Robert, both very young; they landed at Charleston, S. C, where Jackson found employment as a laborer, and continued to work thus for several years, until, possessed of a few dollars, he went to the interior of the state and bought a small place near Waxhaw. About this time, 1767, Andrew Jackson, Jr., was born, and during the next year – by the time the infant could lisp the name of his parent – the father fell sick of fever and died. Mrs. Jackson, left with three small children, in an almost wild country, where nothing but toil of a severe and arduous kind could provide a subsistence, was indeed in a most grievous situation. But she appears to have been a woman of no ordinary temperament, courage, and perseverance, for she continued cheerfully the work left her – rearing her boys, and preparing them for the situations in life they might be destined to fill. Mrs. Jackson was a woman of some information, and a strong advocate for the rights and liberties of men; as, it is said, she not only gave her boys their first rudiments of an English education, but often indulged in glowing lectures to them of the importance of instilling in their hearts and principles an unrelenting war against pomp, power, and circumstance of monarchical governments and institutions! She led them to know that they were born free and equal with the best of earth, and that that position was to be their heritage – maintained even at the peril of life and property! and how well he learned these chivalric lessons, the countrymen of Andrew Jackson need not now be told, as it was exemplified in every page of his whole history.
Hugh, Robert, and Andrew, were now the widow's hope and treasures; Hugh and Robert were her main dependence in working their little farm, and Andrew, never a very robust person, was early sent to the best schools in the neighborhood, and much care taken by his mother to have him at least educated for a profession – the ministry. This resolve was more perhaps decided upon from the naturally stern, contemplative, and fixed principles of young Jackson; as at the early age of fifteen, he was by nature well prepared for the scenes being enacted around him, and in which, even those young as himself, were called upon to take an active part. This was in the days of the revolution, when the weak in numbers of this continent were about to try the experiment of living free and independent, and establish the fact that royalty was an imposition and a humbug, only maintained by arrogance and pomp at the point of the bayonet.
The British had begun the war – already had the echoes of "Bunker Hill," and the smell of "villainous saltpetre," invaded and aroused the quiet dwellers in the woods and wilds of South Carolina, and the chivalric spirit that has ever characterized the men of the Palmetto state, at once responded to the tocsin of liberty. It was with no slight degree of sorrow and aching of the mother's heart, that she saw her two sons, Hugh and Robert, shoulder their muskets and join the Spartan band that assembled at Waxhaw Court-house. But she blessed her children and gave up her holy claim of a mother's love, for the common cause of the infant nation.
Cornwallis and his army crossed the Yadkin, Lord Rawden, with a large force, took the town of Camden, and began a desolation of the adjacent country. Being apprised of a "rebel force" in arms at Waxhaw, he immediately dispatched a company of dragoons, with a company of infantry, to capture or disperse the "rebels." About forty men, including the two boys Jackson, were attacked by these veterans of the British army, but aided by their true courage, a good cause, and perfect knowledge of the country, they gave the invaders a hot reception, and many of the enemy were killed; and not until having made the most determinate resistance, and being overwhelmed by the great majority of the opposing forces, did these patriots retreat, leaving many of their friends dead upon their soil, and eleven of their number prisoners in the hands of the British. It was during this fight that Andrew Jackson – a mere lad – hearing the noise of the conflict, while he sat in the log-house of his mother, besought her to allow him to take his father's gun, and fly to join his brothers. And it was vain that the parent restrained him, knowing the temperament of the boy, from this dangerous determination; for with one warm embrace and parting kiss upon the brow of his mother, Andrew Jackson buckled on his powder-horn and bullet-pouch, and rushed to the scene of battle. But his friends were already flying, and hotly pursued by the enemy. Andrew met his brother Robert, who informed him of the death of their elder brother, Hugh; the two boys now fled together and concealed themselves in the woods, where they lay until hunger drove them forth – they sought food at a farm house, the owner of which proved to be a tory, and gave information to some soldiers in the vicinity – the Jacksons were both captured and led to prison. In the affray – for they yielded only by force – Robert was cut on the head by a sword in the hands of a petty officer, and he died in great agony in prison. It was here and then that the firm and manly bearing of the boy was exhibited; for he stood his griefs and imprisonment like a true hero. Not a tear escaped him by which his enemies might be led to believe he feared their power, or wavered in his allegiance to the cause of his country.
"Here, boy, clean my boots!" said an officer to him. But the bright defiant eye of the boy smote the captor with a look, and as he curled his firm lips in scorn, he answered,
"No, sir, I will not!"
"You won't? I'll tie you, you young saucy rebel, to your post, and skin your back with a horse whip, if you do not clean my boots."
"Do it," said the lion-hearted boy – "for I'll not stoop to clean the boots of your master!"
The infuriated ruffian drew his sword, and to defend his head from the blow, Andrew threw up his little hand and received a gash – the scar of which went with him to the tomb at the Hermitage. A Captain Walker, of South Carolina, with a dozen or twenty men, during the imprisonment of Andrew Jackson, made a desperate charge upon a company of the British, near Camden, and captured thirteen of them; these prisoners he exchanged for seven of his countrymen, including the boy Andrew Jackson, prisoners of the enemy. Andrew hurried home – his poor old mother was upon her death bed, attended by an old negro nurse of the Jackson family, and suffering not only from the great multitude of grief consequent upon the death of her heroic sons, but for want of the common necessaries of life, the invaders having stripped the widow of her last pound of provisions. The life-spark rekindled in the eye of the mother, as she beheld her darling boy safe at her bedside – she grasped his hand with the firmness of a dying woman, and turning her eyes upon the now weeping boy, said,
"Andrew, I leave you, – son, you will soon be alone in the world; be faithful, be true to God and your country – that – when – the – hour of death approaches you – will have – nothing to – dread – every thing – to hope for."
Andrew was taken ill after the burial of his mother, and but for the constant and tender care of the old black nurse – the last of the Jackson family – would have then passed away; he recovered – he was alone – not a relative in the world; poor, and in a land ravaged by a foreign foe, could a boy be more desolate and lonely? With a few "effects" thrown upon his shoulders, he went to North Carolina, Salisbury, where he entered the office of a famed lawyer – Spruce M'Cay – was admitted to the bar in 1778 – went to Tennessee – served as a soldier in the Indian wars of 1783 – chosen a Senator 1797 – Major General in 1801 – whipped the British in the most conclusive manner at New Orleans in 1815, and triumphantly elected President of the United States for eight years in 1829. Andrew Jackson followed his mother's advice, and he not only triumphed over his hard fortune, but died a Christian, full of hope, in 1845.