University of Virginia Library

SKETCHES FROM LIFE.

[Note by the Publishers. The following stories and sketches
of humor are inserted at the special request of Major Downing, and by
consent of the author.]

The names used in the following narrative are of course
fictitious; but the incidents all occurred substantially as here
related, and the parties are respectable gentlemen now living
and doing business in this bustling city of New York. The
writer had the account directly from the lips of the principal
actor. It also should be added that Mr. Sharp described in
this article is not Squire Sharp, the landlord, mentioned by
Major Downing in his May-day letters, though it is not improbable
he may be a second or third cousin.]

PERSEVERANCE:
OR PETER PUNCTUAL'S WAY TO COLLECT BILLS.

BY SEBA SMITH.

Some few years ago, Peter Punctual, an honest
and industrious young fellow from Yankee land—I
say Yankee land, but I freely confess that is merely
an inference of mine, drawn from circumstances of
this story itself; but if my readers, after perusing
it, do not come to the same conclusion, they may
set him down as coming from any other land they
please; but for myself, were I on a jury, and under
oath, I would bring him in a Yankee. This same
Peter Punctual, some few years ago, came into
New York, and attempted to turn a penny and get
an honest living by procuring subscribers to various

magazines and periodicals, on his own hook.
That is, he would receive a quantity of magazines
from a distant publisher, at a discount, and get up
his own list of subscribers about the city, and serve
them through the year at the regular subscription
price, which would leave the amount of the said
discount a clear profit in his pocket, or rather a
compensation for his time and labor. There are
many persons in this city who obtain a livelihood in
the same way.

Peter's commissions being small, and his capital
still smaller, he was obliged to transact his business
with great care and circumspection, in order to
make both ends meet. He adopted a rule therefore
to make all his subscribers pay their year's subscription
in advance. Such things could be done
in those days when business was brisk, and the people
were strangers to “hard times.” In canvassing
for subscribers, one day, through the lower part of
the city, and in the principal business streets, he observed
a store which had the air of doing a heavy
business, and read upon the sign over the door,
“Solomon Sharp, Importer” of certain wares and
merchandize. The field looked inviting, and in
Peter went with his samples under his arm, and inquired
for Mr. Sharp. The gentleman was pointed
out to him by the clerks, and Peter stepped up
and asked him if he would not like to subscribe for
some magazines.

“What sort of ones have you got there?” said
Mr. S.

“Three or four different kinds,” said Peter, laying
the specimens on the desk before him—“please to
look at them and suit yourself.”

Sharp tumbled them over and examined them
one after another, and at last took up “Buckingham's
New England Magazine,” published at Boston.

“What are your terms for this?” said he; “I
don't know but I would subscribe for this.”

“Five dollars a year in advance,” said Peter, “to
be delivered carefully every month at your store or
house.”

“But I never pay in advance for these things,”
said Sharp. “It's time enough to pay for a thing
when you get it. I'll subscribe for it, if you have a
mind to receive your pay at the end of the year,
and not otherwise.”

“That's against my rule,” said Peter; “I have
all my subscribers pay in advance.”

“Well, it's against my rule to pay for anything
before I get it,” said Sharp; “so if you haven't a
mind to take my subscription, to be paid at the end
of the year, you won't get it at all. That's the long
and the short of the matter.”

Peter paused a little, and queried with himself as
to what he had better do. The man was evidently
doing a large business, and was undoubtedly
rich—a wholesale dealer and an importer—there
could not possibly be any danger of losing the subscription
in such a case: and would it not be better
to break over his rule for once, than to lose so
good a subscriber.

“Well, what say?” said Sharp; “do as you
like; but those are my only terms. I will not pay
for a thing before I get it.”

“On the whole,” said Peter, “I have a good mind
to break over my rule this time, for I don't like to
lose a good subscriber when I can find one. I believe
I'll put your name down, sir. Where will
you have it left?”

“At my house,” said Mr. Sharp, which was
about a mile and a half from his store, away up
town.

The business being thus concluded, Peter took
up his magazines, bade Mr. Sharp good morning,

and left the store. No further personal intercourse
occurred between them during the year. But Peter,
who was his own carrier, as well as canvasser,
regularly every month delivered the New England
Magazine at Mr. Sharp's door. And in a few days
after the year expired, he made out his bill for the
five dollars, and called at Mr. Sharp's store for the
money. He entered with as much confidence that
he should receive the chink at once, as he would
have had in going with a check for the like sum into
the Bank of the United States, during that institution's
palmiest days. He found Mr. Sharp at his
desk, and presented him the bill. That gentleman
took it and looked at it, and then looked at Peter.

“Oh! ah, good morning,” said he, “you are the
young man who called here on this business nearly
a year ago. Well, the year has come round, has
it?”

“Yes, I believe it has,” said Peter.

“Well, bills of this kind,” said Mr. Sharp, “are
paid at the house. We don't attend to them here;
you just take it to the house, any time when you are
passing, and it will be settled.”

“Oh, very well, sir,” said Peter, bowing, and left
the store. “Doing too large a business at the store,
I suppose,” he continued, to himself, as he walked
up the street, “to attend to little things of this kind.
Don't like to be bothered with 'em, probably.”

But Peter thought he might as well make a finish
of the business, now he was out; so he went directly
to the house, and rung at the door. The
servant girl soon made her appearance.

“Mrs. Sharp within?” said Peter.

“Yes, sir,” said the girl.

“Jest carry this bill to her, if you please, and ask
her if she will hand you the money for it.”

The girl took the bill into the house, and presently
returned with the answer, that “Mrs. Sharp says

she doesn't pay none of these 'ere things here—you
must carry it to the store.”

“Please to carry it back to Mrs. Sharp,” said
Peter, “and tell her Mr. Sharp desired me to bring
the bill here, and said it would be paid at the
house.”

This message brought Mrs. Sharp herself to the
door, to whom Peter raised his hat and bowed very
politely.

“I haven't nothing at all to do with the bills here
at the house,” said the lady; “they must be carried
to the store—that's the place to attend to them.”

“Well, mam,” said Peter, “I carried it to the
store, and presented it to Mr. Sharp, and he told
me to bring it to the house and you would pay it
here, and that he couldn't attend to it at the store.”

“But he couldn't mean that I should pay it,” said
Mrs. Sharp, “for he knows I haven't the money.”

“But he said so,” said Peter.

“Well then there must be some mistake about
it,” said the lady.

“I beg your pardon, mam,” said Peter, “it's possible
there may be,” and he put the bill in his pocket,
bowed and left the house.

“It is very queer,” thought Peter to himself as
he walk away a little vexed. “I can't conceive
how there could be any mistake about it, though it
is possible there may be. There couldn't be any
mistake on my part, for I'm sure I understood him.
May be he thought she had money at the house
when she hadn't. I guess it will all come out right
enough in the end.”

Consoling himself with these reflections, Peter
Punctual thought he would let Mr. Sharp rest two
or three days, and not show any anxiety by calling
again in a hurry. He would not be so unwise as
to offend a good subscriber, and run the hazard of
losing him, by an appearance of too much haste in

presenting his bills. Accordingly, in about three
days, he called again at Mr. Sharp's store, and asked
him in a low voice, so that no one should overhear,
if it was convenient for him to take that little
bill for the magazine to-day.

“But I told you,” said Mr. Sharp, “to carry that
bill to the house; I can't attend to it here.”

“Yes, sir, so I understood you,” said Peter, “and
I carried it to the house, and Mrs. Sharp said she
couldn't pay it there, for she had no money, and I
must bring it to the store.”

“Oh, strange,” said Mr. Sharp; “well, she didn't
properly understand it then. But I am too much
engaged to attend to you to-day; you call again, or
call at the house sometime, when I am there.”

Upon this, he turned to his desk and began to
write with great earnestness, and Peter left the
store. The affair began to grow a little vexatious,
and Peter felt a little nettled. Still, he supposed
that people doing such very large business did find
it difficult to attend to these little matters, and
doubtless it would be set right when he should call
again.

After waiting patiently a couple of weeks, Peter
called again at Mr. Sharp's store. When he entered
the door, Mr. Sharp was looking at a newspaper;
but on glancing at Peter, he instantly dropped
the paper, and fell to writing at his desk with great
rapidity. Peter waited respectfully a few minutes,
unwilling to disturb the gentleman till he should appear
to be a little more at leisure. But after waiting
some time without seeing any prospect of Mr.
Sharp's completing the very pressing business before
him, he approached him with deference, and
asked if it would be convenient for him to take that
little bill for the magazine to-day. Sharp turned
and looked at Peter very sternly.

“I can't be bothered with these little things,” said

he, “when I am so much engaged. I am exceedingly
busy to-day—a good many heavy orders
waiting—you must call at the house, and hand the
bill to me or my wife, no matter which.” And he
turned to his desk, and continued to write, without
saying anything more.

Peter began to think he had got hold of a hard
customer: but he had no idea of giving up the
chase. He called at the house several times afterward,
but Mr. Sharp never happened to be at home.
Once he ventured to send the bill again by the girl
to Mrs. Sharp, who returned for answer, that she
had nothing to do with such bills; he must carry it
to the store.

At last, after repeated calls, he found Mr. Sharp
one day at home. He came to the door, and Peter
presented the bill. Mr. Sharp expressed some surprize
and regret that he had come away from the
store, and forgot to put any money in his pocket.
Peter would have to call some other day. Accordingly,
Peter Punctual retired, with a full determination
to call some other day, and that not very far
distant; for it had now been several months that
he had been beaten back and forth like a shuttlecock
between Mr. Sharp's store and Mr. Sharp's
house, and he was getting to be rather tired of the
game.

Having ascertained from the girl at what hour
the family dined, he called the next day precisely
at the dinner hour. He rung at the door, and when
the girl opened it, Peter stepped into the hall.

“Is Mr. Sharp in?” said Peter.

“Yes, sir,” said the girl; “he's up stairs. I'll
speak to him if you want to see him.”

“Yes,” said Peter, “and I'll take a seat in the
parlor till he comes down.”

As he said this, Peter walked into the parlor and
seated himself upon an elegant sofa. The parlor

was richly furnished with Brussels carpet, the best
of mahogany furniture, a splendid piano, &c., &c.;
and in the back parlor, to which folding doors were
open, everything appeared with corresponding elegance.
A table was there spread, upon which dinner
seemed to be nearly ready. Presently the girl
returned from the chamber, and informed Peter,
that Mr. Sharp said “it was jest the dinner hour
now, and he would have to call again.”

“Please to go and tell Mr. Sharp,” said Peter,
“that I must see him, and I'll wait till he comes
down.”

The girl carried the message, and Mr. Sharp
soon made his appearance in the parlor. A frown
passed over his brow as he looked at Peter and
saw him sitting so much at ease, and apparently so
much at home, upon the sofa. Peter rose and asked
him politely if it was convenient for him to take
that little bill to-day.

“No,” said Sharp, “it is not; and if it was, I
wouldn't take it at this hour. It's a very improper
time to call upon such an errand just as one is going
to sit down to dinner. You must call again;
but don't call at dinner time; or you may drop into
the store sometime, and perhaps I may find time
to attend to it there.”

“Well, now, Mr. Sharp,” said Peter, with rather
a determined look, “I can't stand this kind of business
any longer, that's a fact. I'm a poor man, and
I suppose you are a rich one. I can't afford to lose
five dollars, and I'm too poor to spend any more
time in running after it and trying to collect it. I
must cat, as well as other folks, and if you can't pay
me the five dollars to-day, to help me pay my board
at my regular boarding-house, I'll stay here and
board it out at your table.”

“You will, will you?” said Sharp, looking dag
gers, and stepping toward Peter. “If you give me

a word of your impudence, you may find it'll be a
long time before you collect your bill.”

“It's been a long time already,” said Peter, “and
I can't afford to wait any longer. My mind is made
up; if you don't pay me now, I'm going to stay
here and board it out.”

Sharp colored, and looked at the door, and then
at Peter.

“Come, come, young man,” said he, advancing
with rather a threatening attitude toward Peter,
“the sooner you leave the house peaceably the better.”

“Now, sir,” said Peter, fixing his black eyes upon
Sharp, with an intenseness that he could not but
feel, “I am a small man, and you are considerable
of a large one; but my mind is made up. I am
not going to starve, when there's food enough that
I have an honest claim upon.”

So saying, he took his seat again very deliberately
upon the sofa. Sharp paused; he looked agitated
and angry; and after waiting a minute, apparently
undecided what to do, he left the parlor
and went up stairs. In a few minutes, the servant
rung for dinner. Mrs. Sharp came into the dining
room and took her seat at the head of the table.
Mr. Sharp followed, and seated himself opposite his
lady; and between them, and on the right hand of
of Mrs. Sharp, sat another lady, probably some
friend or relative of the family. When they were
well seated, and Mr. Sharp was beginning to carve,
Peter walked out of the parlor, drew another chair
up to the table, and seated himself very composedly
opposite the last mentioned lady. Mr. Sharp
colored a good deal, but kept on carving. Mrs.
Sharp stared very wildly, first at Peter and then at
her husband.

“What in the world does this mean?” said she.

“Mr. Sharp I didn't know we were to have company
to dinner.”

“We are not,” said the husband. “This young
man has the impudence to take his seat at the table
unasked and says he is going to board out the
amount of the bill.”

“Well, really, this is a pretty piece of politeness,”
said Mrs. Sharp, looking very hard at Peter.

“Madam,” said Peter, “hunger will drive a man
through a stone wall. I must have my board somewhere.”

No reply was made to this, and the dinner went
on without any further reference to Peter at present.
Mr. Sharp helped his wife, and then the other
lady, and then himself, and they all fell to eating.
Peter looked around him for a plate and knife and
fork, but there wre none on the table but what
were in use. Peter, however, was not to be baffled.
He reached a plate of bread, and tipping the
bread upon the table cloth, appropriated the plate
for his own convenience. He then took possession
of the carving knife and fork, helped himself bountifully
to meat and vegetables, and commenced eating
his dinner with the greatest composure imaginable.
These operations on the part of Peter, had
the effect to suspend all operations for the time on
the part of the rest of the company. The ladies
had laid down their knives and forks, and were
staring at Peter in wild astonishment.

“For mercy's sake, Mr. Sharp,” said the lady of
the house, “can't we pick up money enough about
the house to pay this man his five dollars and send
him off? I declare this is too provoking. I'll see
what I can find.”

With that she rose and left the room. Mr. Sharp
presently followed her. They returned again in a
minute, and Mr. Sharp laid a five dollar bill before
Peter, and told him he would thank him to leave

the house. Peter examined the bill to see if it was
a good one, and very quietly folded it and put it into
his pocket. He then drew out a little pocket inkstand
and a piece of paper, laid it upon the table
before him, wrote a receipt for the money, which
he handed to Mr. Sharp, rose from the table, bowed
to the company and retired, thinking as he left
the house that he had had full enough of the custom
of Solomon Sharp, the importer.

Peter Punctual still followed his vocation of circulating
magazines. He had no intention of ever
darkening the door of Mr. Solomon Sharp's store
again, but somehow or other, two or three years
after, as he was canvasing for subscribers in the
lower part of the city, he happened to blunder into
the same store accidentally, without noticing the
name upon the door. Nor did he discover his mistake,
until he had nearly crossed the store and attracted
the attention of Mr. Sharp himself, who was
at his accustomed seat at the desk where Peter had
before so often seen him. Peter thought, as he
had got fairly into the store, he would not back out;
so he stepped up to Mr. Sharp without a look of recognition,
and asked if he would not like to subscribe
for some magazines. Mr. Sharp, who either
did not recognize Peter, or chose not to appear to
recognize him, took the magazines and looked at
them, and found a couple he said he would like to
take, and inquired the terms. They were each
three dollars a year in advance.

“But I don't pay in advance for anything,” said
Sharp. “If you have a mind to leave them at my
house, to be paid for at the end of the year, you
may put me down for these two.”

“No,” said Peter, “I don't wish to take any subscribers,
but those who pay in advance.”

Saying this, he took up his specimens, and was

going out of the door, when Mr. Sharp called him
back.

“Here young man, you may leave those two at
any rate,” said he, “and here's your advance,”
handing him the six dollars.

“Where will you have them left?” said Peter.

“At my house, up town,” said Mr. Sharp, describing
the street and number.

The business being completed, Peter retired,
much astonished at his good luck. He again became
a monthly visitor at Mr. Sharp's door, where
he regularly delivered to the servant girl the two
magazines. Two or three months after this, when
he called one day on his usual round, the girl told
him that Mr. Sharp wanted to see him, and desired
he would call at the store. Peter felt not a little
curious to know what Mr. Sharp might have to
say to him; so in the course of the same day he
called at Mr. Sharp's store.

“Good morning,” said Mr. Sharp as Peter entered;
“come, take a chair, and sit down here.”

Peter, with a “good morning, sir,” did as he was
desired.

“Ain't you the young man,” said Mr. Sharp, with
a comical kind of a look, “who set out to board
out a subscription to the New England Magazine,
at my house two or three years ago.”

“Yes,” said Peter, “I believe I'm the same person
who once had the honor of taking board at your
house.”

“Well,” said Mr. Sharp, “I want to give you a
job.”

“What is it?” said Peter.

“Here, I want you to collect these bills for me,”
said Mr. Sharp, taking a bundle from his desk, “for
I'll be hanged if I can; I've tried till I'm tired.”

Whereupon he opened the bundle and assorted

out the bills, and made a schedule of them, amounting,
in the aggregate, to about a thousand dollars.

“There,” said he, “I will give upon that list ten
per cent commission on all you collect; and on
that list I'll give you twenty-five per cent on all
you collect. What say you? will you undertake
the job?”

“Well, I'll try,” said Peter, “and see what I can
do with them. How soon must I return them?”

“Take your own time for it,” said Mr. Sharp;
“I've seen enough of you to know pretty well what
you are.”

Peter accordingly took the bills and entered on
his new task, following it up with diligence and perseverance.
In a few weeks he called again at
Sharp's store.

“Well,” said Mr. Sharp, “have you made out
to collect anything on those bills?”

“Yes,” said Peter.

“There were some of the ten per cent list that I
thought it probable you might collect,” said Mr.
Sharp. “How many have you collected?”

“All of them,” said Peter.

“All of them!” said Sharp; “well, fact, that's
much more than I expected. The twenty-five per
cent list was all dead dogs, wasn't it? You got
nothing on them, I suppose, did you?”

“Yes, I did,” said Peter.

“Did you though? How much?” said Sharp.

“I got them all,” said Peter.

“Oh, that's all a joke,” said Sharp.

“No, it isn't a joke,” said Peter. “I've collected
every dollar of them, and here's the money,” taking
out his pocket-book, and counting out the bills.

Mr. Sharp received the money with the most
perfect astonishment. He had not expected one
half of the amount would ever be collected.

He counted out the commissions on the ten per

cent list, and then the commissions on the twenty-five
per cent list, and handed the sum over to Peter.
And then he counted out fifty dollars more,
and asked Peter to accept that as a present; “partly,”
said he, “because you have accomplished this
task so very far beyond my expectations, and partly
because my acquaintance with you has taught
me one of the best lessons of my life. It has taught
me the value of perseverance and punctuality. I
have reflected upon it much ever since you undertook
to board out the bill for the magazine at my
house.”

“Why yes,” said Peter, “I think perseverance
and punctuality are great helps in the way of business.”

“If every person in the community,” said Mr.
Sharp, “would make it a point to pay all of his bills
promptly, the moment they become due, what a
vast improvement it would make in the condition
of society all round. That would put people in a
condition, at all times, to be able to pay their bills
promptly.”

We might add, that Peter Punctual afterward
opened a store in the city, in a branch of business
which brought Mr. Sharp to be a customer to him,
and he has been one of his best customers ever
since, paying all of his bills promptly, and whenever
Peter requires it, even paying in advance.

POLLY GRAY AND THE DOCTORS.

BY SEBA SMITH.

It was a dark, and rainy night in June, when
Deacon Gray, about ten o'clock in the evening,
drove his horse and wagon up to the door, on his return
from market.

“Oh dear, Mr. Gray,” exclaimed his wife, as she
met him at the door, “I'm dreadful glad you've
come; Polly's so sick, I'm afraid she won't live till
mornin', if something ain't done for her.”

“Polly is always ailing,” said the deacon deliberately;
“I guess it's only some of her old aches
and pains. Just take this box of sugar in; it has
been raining on it this hour.”

“Well, do come right in, Mr. Gray, for you don't
know what a desput case she is in; I daren't leave
her a minute.”

“You are always scared half to death,” said the
deacon, “if anything ails Polly; but you know she
always gets over it again. Here's coffee and tea
and some other notions rolled up in this bag,” handing
her another bundle to carry into the house.

“Well, but Mr. Gray, don't pray stop for bundles
nor nothin' else. You must go right over after
Doctor Longley, and get him here as quick as you
can.”

“Oh, if it's only Doctor Longley she wants,” said
the deacon carelessly, “I guess she aint so dangerous
after all.”

“Now, Mr. Gray, jest because Doctor Longley is
a young man and about Polly's age, that you should
make such an unfeelin' expression as that, I think is
too bad.”

The deacon turned away without making a reply,
and began to move the harness from the horse.

“Mr. Gray, ain't you going after the doctor?”
said Mrs. Gray, with increasing impatience.

“I'm going to turn the horse into the pasture,
and then I'll come in and see about it,” said the
deacon.

A loud groan from Polly drew Mrs. Gray hastily
into the house. The deacon led his horse a quarter
of a mile to the pasture; let down the bars and
turned him in; put all the bars carefully up; hunted
round and found a stick to drive in as a wedge
to fasten the top bar; went round the barn to see
that the doors were all closed; got an armful of
dry straw and threw it into the pig-pen; called the
dog from his kennel, patted him on his head, and
went into the house.

“I'm afraid she's dying,” said Mrs. Gray, as the
deacon entered.

“You are always scared half out of your wits,”
said the deacon, “if there's anything the matter.
I'll come in as soon as I've took off my coat and
boots and put on some dry ones.”

Mrs. Gray ran back to attend upon Polly; but
before the deacon had got ready to enter the room,
Mrs. Gray screamed again with the whole strength
of her lungs,

“Mr. Gray, Mr. Gray, do make haste, she's in a fit.”

This was the first sound that had given the deacon
any uneasiness about the matter. He had been
accustomed for years to hear his wife “worry”
about Polly, and had heard her predict her death so
often from very slight illness, that he had come to
regard such scenes and such predictions with as
little attention as he did the rain that pattered
against the window. But the word fit was something
he had never heard applied in these cases
before, and the sound of it gave him a strange feeling

of apprehension. He had just thrown off his
boots and put his feet into dry shoes, and held a
dry coat in his hand, when this last appeal came to
his ear and caused him actually to hasten into the
room.

“Polly, what's the matter now?” said the deacon,
beginning to be somewhat agitated, as he approached
the bedside.

Polly was in violent spasms, and heeded not the
inquiry. The deacon took hold of her arm, and
repeated the question more earnestly and in a tender
tone.

“You may as well speak to the dead,” said Mrs.
Gray; “she's past hearing or speaking.”

The deacon's eyes looked wild, and his face
grew very long.

“Why didn't you tell me how sick she was
when I first got home?” said the deacon, with a
look of rebuke.

“I did tell you when you first come,” said Mrs.
Gray, sharply, “and you didn't take no notice on
it.”

“You didn't tell me anything about how sick she
was,” said the deacon; “you only spoke jest as you
used to, when she wasn't hardly sick at all.”

The subject here seemed to subside by mutual
consent, and both stood with their eyes fixed upon
Polly, who was apparently struggling in the fierce
agonies of death. In a few minutes however, she
came out of the spasm, breathed comparatively
easy, and lay perfectly quiet. The deacon spoke
to her again. She looked up with a wild delirious
look, but made no answer.

“I'll go for the doctor,” said the deacon, “it
may be he can do something for her, though she
looks to me as though it was a gone goose with
her.”

Saying this, he put on his hat and coat and started.

Having half a mile to go, and finding the doctor
in bed, it was half an hour before he returned with
Doctor Longley in his company. In the meantime
Mrs. Gray had called in old Mrs. Livermore who
lived next door, and they had lifted Polly up
and put a clean pillow upon the bed, and a clean
cap on her head, and had been round and “slicked
up” the room a little, for Mrs. Livermore said,
“Doctor Longley was such a nice man she always
loved to see things look tidy where he was coming
to.”

The deacon came in and hung his hat up behind
the door, and Doctor Longley followed with his hat
in his hand and a small pair of saddle-bags on his
arm. Mrs. Gray stood at one side of the bed, and
Mrs. Livermore at the other, and the doctor laid
his hat and saddle-bags on the table that stood by
the window, and stepped immediately to the bed-side.

“Miss Gray, are you sick?” said the doctor,
taking the hand of the patient.

No answer or look from the patient gave any
indication that she heard the question.

“How long has she been ill?” said the doctor.

“Ever since mornin',” said Mrs. Gray. “She
got up with a head-ache, jest after her father went
away to market, and smart pains inside, and she's
been growing worse all day.”

“And what have you given her?” said the doctor.

“Nothing, but arb-drink,” said Mrs. Gray;
“whenever she felt worse, I made her take a good
deal of arb-drink, because that, you know, is always
good, doctor. And besides, when it can't do no
good, it would do no hurt.”

But what sort of drinks have you given her?”
said the doctor.

“Well, I give her most all sorts, for we had a
plenty of 'em in the house,” said Mrs. Gray. “I

give her sage, and peppermint, and sparemint, and
cammermile, and pennyryal, and motherwort, and
balm; you know, balm is very coolin,' doctor, and
sometimes she'd be very hot, and then I'd make her
drink a good dose of balm.”

“Give me a candle,” said the doctor.

The deacon brought a candle and held it over
the patient's head. The doctor opened her mouth
and examined it carefully for the space of a minute.
He felt her pulse another minute, and looked again
into her mouth.

“Low pulse, but heavy and labored respiration,”
said the doctor.

“What do you think ails her?” said Mrs. Gray.

The doctor shook his head.

“Do you think you can give her anything to
help her?” said the deacon anxiously.

The doctor looked very grave, and fixed his eyes
thoughtfully on the patient for a minute, but made
no reply to the deacon's question.

“Why didn't you send for me sooner?” at last
said the doctor, turning to Mrs. Gray.

“Because I thought my arb-drink would help her,
and so I kept trying it all day till it got to be dark,
and then she got be so bad I didn't dare to leave
her till Mr. Gray got home.”

“It's a great pity,” said the doctor, turning from
the bed to the table and opening his saddle-bags.
“Thousands and thousands of lives are lost only by
delaying to send for medical advice till it is too
late; thousands that might have been saved as well
as not, if only taken in season.”

“But doctor, you don't think it's too late for Polly,
do you?” said Mrs. Gray.

“I think her case, to say the least, is extremely
doubtful,” said the doctor. “Her appearance is
very remarkable. Whatever her disease is, it has
made such progress, and life is so nearly extinct,

that it is impossible to tell what were the original
symptoms, and consequently what applications are
best to be made.”

“Well, now, doctor,” said Mrs. Livermore, “excuse
me for speakin; but I'm a good deal older
than you are, and have seen a great deal of sickness
in my day, and I've been in here with Polly a
number of times to-day, and sometimes this evening,
and I'm satisfied, doctor, there's something the
matter of her insides.”

“Undoubtedly,” said the doctor, looking very
grave.

This new hint from Mrs. Livermore seemed to
give Mrs. Gray new hope, and she appealed again
to the doctor.

“Well, now, doctor,” said she, “don't you think
Mrs. Livermore has the right of it?”

“Most unquestionably,” said the doctor.

“Well, then, doctor, if you should give her something
that's pretty powerful to operate inwardly,
don't you think it might help her?”

“It might, and it might not,” said the doctor;
“the powers of life are so nearly exhausted, I must
tell you frankly I have very little hope of being
able to rally them. There is not life enough left to
indicate the disease or show the remedies that are
wanted. Applications now must be made entirely
in the dark, and leave the effect to chance.”

At this, Mrs. Livermore took the candle and was
proceeding to remove it from the room, when the
doctor, perceiving her mistake, called her back.
He did not mean to administer the medicine literally
in a dark room, but simply in a state of darkness
and ignorance as to the nature of the disease. It
was a very strange case; it was certain life could
hold out but a short time longer; he felt bound to
do something, and therefore proceeded to prepare
such applications and remedies as his best judgment

dictated. These were administered without
confidence, and their effect awaited with painful solicitude.
They either produced no perceptible effect
at all, or very different from the ordinary results
of such applications.

“I should like,” said Doctor Longley to the deacon,
“to have you call in Doctor Stubbs; this is a
very extraordinary case, and I should prefer that
some other medical practitioner might be present.”

The deacon accordingly hastened to call Doctor
Stubbs, a young man who had come into the
place a short time before, with a high reputation,
but not a favorite with the deacon and his family,
on account of his being rather fresh from college,
and full of modern innovations.

After Doctor Stubbs had examined the patient,
and made various inquiries of the family, he and
Doctor Longley held a brief consultation. Their
united wisdom, however, was not sufficient to throw
any light upon the case or to afford any relief.

“Have you thought of poison?” said Doctor
Longley.

“Yes,” said Doctor Stubbs, “but there are certain
indications in the case, which forbid that altogether.
Indeed, I can form no satisfactory opinion
about it; it is the most anomalous case I ever knew.”

Before their conference was brought to a close,
the deacon called them, saying he believed Polly
was a going. They came into the room and hastened
to the bed-side.

“Yes,” said Doctor Stubbs, looking at the patient,
“those are dying struggles; in a short time
all her troubles in this life will be over.”

The patient sunk gradually and quietly away,
and in the course of two hours after the arrival of
Doctor Stubbs, all signs of life were gone.

“The Lord's will be done,” said the deacon, as

he stood by the bed and saw her chest heave for
the last time.

Mrs. Gray sat in the corner of the room with her
apron to her face weeping aloud. Old Mrs. Livermore
and two other females, who had been called
in during the night, were already busily employed
in preparing for laying out the corpse.

It was about daybreak when the two doctors left
the house and started for home.

“Very singular case,” said Doctor Stubbs, who
spoke with more ease and freedom, now that they
were out of the way of the afflicted family. “We
ought not to give it up so, doctor; we ought to follow
this case up till we ascertain what was the
cause of her death. What say to a post mortem
examination?”

“I always dislike them,” said Doctor Longley;
“they are ugly uncomfortable jobs; and besides, I
doubt whether the deacon's folks would consent to
it.”

“It is important for us, as well as for the cause of
the science,” said Doctor Stubbs, “that something
should be done about it. We are both young, and
it may have an injurious bearing upon our reputation
if we are not able to give any explanation of
the case. I consider my reputation at stake as well
as yours, as I was called in for consultation. There
will doubtless be an hundred rumors afloat, and the
older physicians, who look upon us, you know, with
rather an evil eye, will be pretty sure to lay hold of
the matter and turn it greatly to our disadvantage,
if we cannot show facts for our vindication. The
deacon's folks must consent, and you had better go
down after breakfast and have a talk with the deacon
about it.”

Doctor Longley felt the force of the reasoning
and consented to go. Accordingly, after breakfast,
he returned to Deacon Gray's, and kindly offered

his services, if there was any assistance he could
render in making preparations for the funeral. The
deacon felt much obliged to him, but didn't know
as there was anything for which they particularly
needed his assistance. The doctor then broached
the subject of the very sudden and singular death of
Polly, and how important it was for the living that
the causes of such a sudden death should, if possible,
be ascertained, and delicately hinted that the
only means of obtaining this information, so desirable
for the benefit of the science and so valuable for
all living, was by opening and examining the body
after death.

At this the deacon looked up at him with such an
awful expression of holy horror, that the doctor
saw at once it would be altogether useless to pursue
the subject further. Accordingly, after advising,
on account of the warm weather and the patient
dying suddenly and in full blood, not to postpone
the funeral later than that afternoon, the doctor
took his leave.

“Well, what is the result?” said Doctor Stubbs,
as Doctor Longley entered his door.

“Oh, as I expected,” said Doctor Longley. “The
moment I hinted at the subject to the deacon, I saw
by his looks, if it were to save his own life and the
lives of all his friends, he never would consent to
it.”

“Well, 'tis astonishing,” said Doctor Stubbs,
“that people who have common sense should have
so little sense on a subject of this kind. I won't be
baffled so, Doctor Longley; I'll tell you what I'll
do. What time is she to be buried?”

“This afternoon,” said Doctor Longley.

“In the burying ground by the old meeting-house
up the road. I suppose,” said Doctor Stubbs.

“Yes, undoubtedly,” replied Dr. Longley.

“Well, I'll have that corpse taken up this night,

and you may depend upon it,” said Doctor Stubbs.
“I'll not only ascertain the cause of her death, but
I want a subject for dissection, and she having died
so suddenly will make an excellent one.”

Doctor Longley shuddered a little at the bold project
of Doctor Stubbs. “You know, doctor, there
is a law against it,” said he, “and besides, the burying
ground is in such a lonely place and surrounded
by woods, I don't believe you can find anybody
with nerve enough to go there and take up a newly
buried corpse in the night.”

“Let me alone for that,” said Doctor Stubbs.
“I know a chap that would do it every night in the
week if I wanted him to; a friend of mine down
there in the college, in the senior class. He has
nerve enough to go anywhere, and is up to a job of
this kind at any time. The business is all arranged,
doctor, and I shall go through with it. Joe
Palmer is the man for it, and Rufus Barnes will go
with him. I'd go myself, but it would be more prudent
for me to be at home, for in case of accident,
and the thing should be discovered, suspicion would
be likely to fall on me, and it would be important
for me to be able to prove where I was. Rufus
must go to the funeral and see whereabouts the
corpse is buried, so he can find the place in a dark
night, and I shall have to go down to the college
the first of the evening after Joe myself, and get
him started, and then come right home, and stay at
home, so that I can prove an alibi in case of any
questions. Don't I understand it, doctor?”

“Yes, full well enough,” said Doctor Longley,
“but I had rather you would be in the scrape than
I should.”

That evening, half an hour after dark, there was
a light rap at Joe Palmer's door in the third story
of one of the college buildings. The door was
partly open, and Joe said “come in.” No one entered,

but in a few moments the rap was heard
again. “Come in,” said Joe. Still no one entered.
Presently a figure, concealed under a cloak
and with muffled face, appeared partly before the
door, and said something in a low voice. Joe looked
wild and agitated. Some college scrape, he
thought, but what was the nature of it he could not
divine. The figure looked mysterious. Presently
the voice was heard again, and understood to utter
the word Palmer. Joe was still more agitated, and
looked at his chum most inquiringly. His chum
stepped to the door and asked what was wanting.
The figure drew back into the darkness of the hall,
and answered in a faint voice, that he wanted Palmer.
At last Palmer screwed his resolution up to
the sticking point and ventured as far as the door,
while his chum stepped back into the room. The
figure again came forward and whispered to Palmer
to come out, for he wanted to speak with him.

“But who are you?” said Palmer.

The figure partially uncovered his face, and
whispered “Doctor Stubbs.”

Palmer at once recognized him, and stepped back
as bold as a lion, and took his hat and went out.
In a few minutes he returned and told his chum,
with rather a mysterious air, that he was going out
with a friend to be gone two or three hours, that
he need not feel uneasy about him, and might leave
the door unfastened for him till he returned.

Doctor Stubbs, having given Joe and Rufus full
directions how to proceed, telling them to get a
large wide chaise, so that they could manage to
carry the corpse conveniently, and informing them
where they could find spades and shovels deposited
by the side of the road for the purpose, left them
and hastened home.

“Well now, Rufe,” said Joe, “we'll just go over
to Jake Rider's and get one of his horses and chaise.

But we needn't be in a hurry, for we don't want
to get there much before midnight; and we'll go
into the store here and get a drink of brandy to begin
with, for this kind of business needs a little stimulus.”

Having braced their nerves with a drink of brandy,
they proceeded to Jacob Rider's.

“Jake, give us a horse and chaise to take a ride
three or four hours,” said Joe. “You needn't mind
setting up for us; we'll put the horse up when we
come back, and take good care of him; we know
where to put him. We don't want a nag; an old
steady horse that will give us an easy pleasant
ride.”

“Old Tom is jest the horse you want,” said Jacob,
“and there's a good easy going chaise.”

“That chaise isn't wide enough,” said Joe; “give
us the widest one you've got.”

“But that's plenty wide enough for two to ride
in,” said Jacob; “I don't see what you want a wider
chaise than that for.”

“Oh, I like to have plenty of elbow room,” said
Joe.

“Maybe you are going to have a lady to ride
with you,” said Jacob.

Joe laughed, and whispered to Rufus that Jake
had hit nearer the mark than he was aware of.

Jacob selected another chaise. “There is one,”
said he “wide enough for three to ride in, and even
four upon a pinch.”

“That'll do,” said Joe; “now put in old Tom.”

The horse was soon harnessed, and Joe and Rufus
jumped into the chaise and drove off.”

“Confound these college chaps,” said Jacob to
himself as they drove out of the yard; “they are
always a sky-larkin' somewhere or other. There's
one thing in it though, they pay me well for my
horses. But these two fellows wanting such a

broad chaise; they are going to have a real frolic
somewhere to night. I've a plaguy good mind to
jump on to one of the horses and follow, and see
what sort of snuff they are up to. It's so dark I
could do it just as well as not, without the least danger
of their seeing me.”

No sooner thought than done. Jake at once
mounted one of his horses, and followed the chaise.
There was no moon, and the night was cloudy and
dark; but a slight rattle in one of the wheels of the
chaise, enabled him easily to follow it, though entirely
out of sight. Having gone about two miles
the chaise stopped at the corner, about a hundred
rods from the house of Dr. Stubbs. Jake got off
and hitched his horse, and crept carefully along by
the side of the fence to see what was done there.
By stooping down and looking up against a clear
patch of sky, he could see one of the two leave the
chaise and go to the fence by the side of the road,
and return again, carrying something in his arms to
the chaise. He repeated this operation twice; but
what he carried Jake could not discern. Perhaps
it might be some baskets of refreshments. They
were going off to some house to have a frolic. The
chaise moved on again, and jake mounted his horse
and followed. They went up the road till they
came to the old meeting-house; they passed it a
little, and came against the old burying ground.
The chaise stopped and Jake stopped. The chaise
stood still for the space of about five minutes, and
there was not the least sound to be heard in any direction.
At last, from the little rattle of the chaise
wheel, he perceived they were moving at a moderate
walk. They came to the corner of the burying
ground, and turned a little out of the road and
stopped the chaise under the shadow of a large
spreading tree, where it could not be perceived by

any one passing in the road, even should the clouds
brush away and leave it starlight.

“It is very odd,” thought Jake, “that they should
stop at such a place as this in a dark night; the last
place in the world I should think of stopping at.”

Jake dismounted and hitched his horse a little
distance, and crept carefully up to watch their movements.
They took something out of the chaise,
passed along by the fence, went through the little
gate, and entered the burying ground. Here a new
light seemed to flash upon Jake's mind.

“I hope no murder has been committed,” thought
he to himself; “but it's pretty clear something is to
be buried here to-night that the world must know
nothing about.”

Jake was perplexed, and in doubt as to what he
should do. He had some conscience, and felt as
though he ought to investigate the matter, and put
a stop to the business if anything very wicked was
going on. But then there were other considerations
that weighed on the other side. If murder
had been committed it was within the range of possibility,
and not very unreasonable to suppose, that
murder might be committed again to conceal it.
There were two of them, and he was alone. It
might not be entirely safe for him to interfere. He
would hardly care to be thrown into a grave and
buried there that night. And then, again, Jake was
avaricious, and wouldn't care to break friends with
those college fellows, for they paid him a good deal
of money. On the whole, he was resolved to keep
quiet and see the end of the matter.

Joe and Rufus walked two-thirds of the way
across the burying ground and stopped. Jake followed
at a careful distance, and when he found
they had stopped, he crept slowly up on the darkest
side, so near that, partly by sight and partly by
sound, he could discover what took place. There

was not a loud word spoken, though he occasionally
heard them whisper to each other. Then he
heard the sound of shovels and the moving of gravel.

“It is true,” said Jake to himself, “they are digging
a grave!” and the cold sweat started on his
forehead. Still he resolved to be quiet and see it
all through. Once or twice they stopped and seemed
to be listening, as though they thought they
heard some noise. Then he could hear them whisper
to each other, but could not understand what
they said. After they had been digging and throwing
out gravel some time, he heard a sound like the
light knock of a shovel upon the lid of a coffin.

“Take care,” said Joe, in a very loud whisper,
“it'll never do to make such a noise as that; it
could be heard almost half a mile; do be more careful.”

Again they pursued their work, and occasionally
a hollow sound like a shovel scraping over a coffin
was heard. At length their work of throwing
out gravel seemed to be completed; and then there
was a pause for some time, interrupted occasionally
by sounds of screwing, and wedging, and wrenching;
and at last they seemed to be lifting some
heavy substance out of the grave. They carried
it toward the gate. Jake was lying almost upon
the ground, and as they passed near him, he could
perceive they were carrying some white object
about the length and size of a corpse. They went
out at the gate and round to the chaise; and presently
they returned again, and appeared by their
motions and the sound to be filling up the grave.
Jake took this opportunity to go and examine the
chaise; and sure enough he found there a full-sized
corpse, wrapped in a white sheet, lying in the centre
of the chaise, the feet resting on the floor, the
body leaning across the seat, and the head resting
against the centre of the back part of the chaise.

“Only some scrape of the Doctor's after all,” said
Jake to himself, who now began to breathe somewhat
easier than he had done for some time past.
“But it's rather shameful business, though; this
must be Deacon Gray's daughter, I'm sure; and it's
a shame to treat the old man in this shabby kind of
way. I'll put a stop to this, anyhow. Polly Gray
was too good a sort of a gal to be chopped up like
a quarter of beef, according to my way of thinking,
and it shan't be.”

Jake then lifted the corpse out of the chaise, carried
it a few rods farther from the road, laid it down,
took off the winding sheet, wrapped it carefully
round himself, went back and got into the chaise,
and placed himself exactly in the position in which
the corpse had been left. He had remained in that
situation but a short time before Joe and Rufus,
having filled up the grave and made all right there,
came and seated themselves in the chaise, one on
each side of the corpse, and drove slowly and quietly
off.

“I'm glad it's over,” said Rufus, fetching a long
breath. “My heart's been in my mouth the whole
time. I thought I heard somebody coming half a
dozen times; and then it's such a dismal, gloomy
place too. You wouldn't catch me there again, in
such a scrape, I can tell you.”

“Well, I was calm as clock-work the whole
time,” said Joe. “You should have such pluck as
I've got, Rufe; nothing ever frightens me.”

At that moment the chaise wheel struck a stone,
and caused the corpse to roll suddenly against Joe.
He clapped up his hand to push it a little back, and
instead of a cold clammy corpse, he felt his hand
pressed against a warm face of live flesh. As
quick as though he had been struck by lightning,
Joe dropped the reins, and with one bound sprang

a rod from the chaise and ran for his life. Rufus,
without knowing the cause of this strange and sudden
movement, sprang from the other side with almost
equal agility, and followed Joe with his utmost
speed. They scarcely stopped to take breath
till they had run two miles and got into Joe's room
at the college, and shut the door and locked themselves
in. Here, having sworn Joe's chum to secrecy,
they began to discuss the matter. But concerning
the very strange warmth of the corpse they
could come to no satisfactory conclusion. Whether
it could be, that they had not actually taken up
the corpse from the grave, but before they had got
down to it some evil spirit had come in the shape
of the corpse and deceived them, or whether it was
actually the corpse, and it had come to life, or
whether it was the ghost of Polly Gray, were questions
they could not decide. They agreed, however,
to go the next morning by sunrise on to the
ground, and see what discoveries they could make.

When Jacob Rider found himself alone in the
chaise, being convinced that Joe and Rufus would
not come back to trouble him that night, he turned
about and drove back to the burying ground.

“Now,” said Jake, “I think the best thing I can
do, for all concerned, is to put Polly Gray back
where she belongs, and there let her rest.”

Accordingly Jake went to work and opened the
grave again, carried the corpse and replaced it as
well as he could, and filled up the grave and rounded
it off in good order. He then took his horses and
chaise and returned home, well satisfied with his
night's work.

The next morning, some time before sunrise, and
before any one were stirring in the neighborhood,
Joe and Rufus was at the old burying ground.
They went round the inclosure, went to the tree
where they had fastened their horse, and looked on

every side, but discovered nothing. They went
through the gate, and across to the grave where
they had been the night before. The grave looked
all right, as though it had not been touched since
the funeral. They could see nothing of the horse
or chaise, and they concluded if the corpse or evil
spirit, or whatever it was in the chaise, had left the
horse to himself, he probably found his way directly
home. They thought it best therefore immediately
to go and see Jake, and make some kind of
an explanation. So they went over immediately to
Jake's stable, and found the horse safe in his stall.
Presently Jake made his appearance.

“Well, your confounded old horse,” said Joe,
“wouldn't stay hitched last night. He left us in
the lurch, and we had to come home afoot. I see
he's come home, though. Chaise all right, I hope.”

“Yes, all right,” said Jake.

“Well, how much for the ride,” said Joe, “seeing
we didn't ride but one way?”

“Seeing you rode part way back,” said Jake, “I
shall charge you fifty dollars.”

Joe started and looked round, but a knowing leer
in Jake's eye convinced him it was no joke. He
handed Jake the fifty dollars, at the same time placing
his finger emphatically across his lips; and Jake
took the fifty dollars, whispering in Joe's ear, “dead
folks tell no tales.” Jake then put his finger across
his lips, and Joe and Rufus bade him good morning.

CHRISTOPHER CROTCHET:
THE SINGING-MASTER.

BY SEBA SMITH.

Your New England country singing-master is a
peculiar character; who shall venture to describe
him? During his stay in a country village, he is
the most important personage in it. The common
school-master, to be sure, is a man of dignity and
importance. Children never pass him on the road,
without turning square round, pulling off their hats,
and making one of their best and most profound
bows. He is looked up to with universal deference
both by young and old, and is often invited out to
tea. Or, if he “boards round,” great is the parade,
and great the preparation, by each family, when
their “week for boarding the master” draws near.
Then not unfrequently a well fatted porker is killed,
and the spare ribs are duly hung round the pantry
in readiness for roasting. A half bushel of sausages
are made up into “links,” and suspended on a
pole near the ceiling from one end of the kitchen
to the other. And the Saturday beforehand, if the
school-master is to come on Monday, the work of
preparation reaches its crisis. Then it is, that the
old oven, if it be not “heaten seven times hotter
than it is wont to be,” is at least heated seven times;
and apple-pies, and pumpkin-pies, and mince-pies
are turned out by dozens, and packed away in
closet and cellar for the coming week. And the
“fore room,” which has not had a fire in it for the
winter, is now duly washed and scrubbed and put
to rights, and wood is heaped on the fire with a

liberal hand, till the room itself becomes almost
another oven. George is up betimes on Monday
morning to go with his hand-sled and bring the
master's trunk; Betsey and Sally are rigged out in
the best calico gowns, the little ones have their
faces washed and their hair combed with more than
ordinary care, and the mother's cap has an extra
crimp. And all this stir and preparation for the
common school-master. And yet he is but an
every-day planet, that moves in a regular orbit, and
comes round at least every winter.

But the singing-master is your true comet. Appearing
at no regular intervals, he comes suddenly,
and often unexpected. Brilliant, mysterious and
erratic, no wonder that he attracts all eyes, and
produces a tremendous sensation. Not only the
children, but the whole family, flock to the windows
when he passes, and a face may be seen at every
pane of glass, eagerly peering out to catch a
glimpse of the singing-master. Even the very
dogs seem to partake of the awe he inspires, and
bark with uncommon fierceness whenever they
meet him.

“O, father,” said little Jimmy Brown, as he came
running into the house on a cold December night,
with eyes staring wide open, and panting for breath,
“O, father, Mr. Christopher Crotchet from Quavertown,
is over to Mr. Gibbs' tavern, come to see
about keeping singing-school; and Mr. Gibbs, and
a whole parcel more of 'em, wants you to come
right over there, cause they're goin' to have a
meeting this evening to see about hiring of him.”

Squire Brown and his family, all except Jimmy,
were seated round the supper table when this interesting
piece of intelligence was announced. Every
one save Squire Brown himself, gave a sudden
start, and at once suspended operations; but the
Squire, who was a very moderate man, and never

did anything from impulse, ate on without turning
his head, or changing his position. After a short
pause, however, which was a moment of intense
anxiety to some members of the family, he replied
to Jimmy as follows:—

“I shan't do no sich thing; if they want a singing-school,
they may get it themselves. A singing-school
wont do us no good, and I've ways enough
to spend my money without paying it for singing.”
Turning his head round and casting a severe look
upon Jimmy, he proceeded with increasing energy:

“Now, Sir, hang your hat up and set down and
eat your supper; I should like to know what sent
you off over to the tavern without leave.”

“I wanted to see the singing-master,” said Jimmy.
“Sam Gibbs said there was a singing-master
over to their house, and so I wanted to see him.”

“Well, I'll singing-master you,” said the Squire,
“if I catch you to go off so again without leave.
Come, don't stand there; set down and eat your
supper, or I'll trounce you in two minutes.”

“There, I declare,” said Mrs. Brown, “I do think
it too bad. I do wish I could live in peace one
moment of my life. The children will be spoilt
and ruined. They never can stir a step nor hardly
breathe, but what they must be scolded and fretted
to death.”

Squire Brown had been accustomed to these
sudden squalls about twenty-five years, they having
commenced some six months or so after his marriage;
and long experience had taught him, that
the only way to escape with safety, was to bear
away immediately and scud before the wind. Accordingly
he turned again to Jimmy, and with a
much softened tone addressed him as follows:—

“Come, Jimmy, my son, set down and eat your
supper, that's a good boy. You shouldn't go away

without asking your mother or me; but you'll try
to remember next time, won't you?”

Jimmy and his mother were both somewhat
soothed by this well-timed suavity, and the boy
took his seat at the table.

“Now, pa,” said Miss Jerusha Brown, “you will
go over and see about having a singing-school,
won't you? I want to go dreadfully?”

“Oh, I can't do anything about that,” said the
Squire; “it'll cost a good deal of money, and I
can't afford it. And besides, there's no use at all in
it. You can sing enough now, any of you; you
are singing half your time.”

“There,” said Mrs. Brown, “that's just the way.
Our children will never have a chance to be anything
as long as they live. Other folks' children
have a chance to go to singing-schools, and to see
young company, and to be something in the world.
Here's our Jerusha has got to be in her twenty-fifth
year now, and if she's ever going to have
young company, and have a chance to be anything,
she must have it soon; for she'll be past the time
bime-by for sich things. 'Tisn't as if we was poor
and couldn't afford it; for you know, Mr. Brown,
you pay the largest tax of anybody in the town,
and can afford to give the children a chance to be
something in the world, as well as not. And as for
living in this kind of way any longer, I've no notion
on't.”

Mrs. Brown knew how to follow up an advantage.
She had got her husband upon the retreat
in the onset a moment before, in reference to Jimmy's
absence, and the closing part of this last
speech was uttered with an energy and determination,
of which Squire Brown knew too well the
import to disregard it. Perceiving that a storm
was brewing that would burst upon his head with
tremendous power, if he did not take care to avoid

it, he finished his supper with all convenient despatch,
rose from the table, put on his great-coat
and hat, and marched deliberately over to Gibbs'
tavern. Mrs. Brown knew at once, that she had
won the victory, and that they should have a singing-school.
The children also had become so well
versed in the science of their mother's tactics, that
they understood the same thing, and immediately
began to discuss matters preparatory to attending
the school.

Miss Jerusha said she must have her new calico
gown made right up, the next day; and her mother
said she should, and David might go right over after
Betsey Davis to come to work on it the next
morning.

“How delightful it will be to have a singing-school,”
said Miss Jerusha: “Jimmy, what sort of
a looking man is Mr. Crotchet?”

“Oh, he is a slick kind of a looking man,” said
Jimmy.

“Is he a young man, or a married man?” inquired
Miss Jerusha.

“Ho! married? no; I guess he isn't,” said
Jimmy, “I don't believe he's more than twenty
years old.”

“Poh; I don't believe that story,” said Jerusha,
“a singing-master must be as much as twenty-five
years old, I know! How is he dressed? Isn't he
dressed quite genteel?”

“Oh, he's dressed pretty slick,” said Jimmy.

“Well, that's what makes him look so young,”
said Miss Jerusha; “I dare say he's as much as
twenty-five years old; don't you think he is, mother?”

“Well, I think it's pretty likely he is,” said Mrs.
Brown; “singing-masters are generally about that
age.”

“How does he look?” said Miss Jerusha; “is he
handsome?”

“He's handsome enough,” said Jimmy, “only he's
got a red head and freckly face.”

“Now, Jim, I don't believe a word you say. You
are saying this, only just to plague me.”

To understand the propriety of this last remark
of Miss Jerusha, the reader should be informed, that
for the last ten years she had looked upon every
young man who came into the place, as her own
peculiar property. And in all cases, in order to
obtain possession of her aforesaid property, she had
adopted prompt measures, and pursued them with
a diligence worthy of all praise.

“No I ain't neither,” said Jimmy, “I say he has
got a red head and freckly face.”

“La, well,” said Mrs. Brown, “what if he has?
I'm sure a red head don't look bad; and one of
the handsomest men that ever I see, had a freckly
face.”

“Well, Jimmy, how large is he? Is he a tall
man, or a short man?” said Miss Jerusha.

“Why, he isn't bigger round than I be,” said
Jimmy; “and I guess he isn't quite as tall as a hay-pole;
but he's so tall he has to stoop when he goes
into the door.”

So far from adding to the shock, which Miss Jerusha's
nerves had already received from the account
of the red head and freckly face, this last piece of
intelligence was on the whole rather consolatory;
for she lacked but an inch and a half of six feet in
height herself.

“Well, Jimmy,” said Miss Jerusha, “when he
stands up, take him altogether, isn't he a good-looking
young man?”

“I don't know anything about that,” said Jimmy;
“he looks the most like the tongs in the riddle, of
anything I can think of:

“There, Jim, you little plague,” said Miss Jerusha,
“you shall go right off to bed, if you don't
leave off your nonsense. I won't hear another word
of it.”

“I don't care it you won't,” said Jimmy, “it's all
true, every word of it.”

“What! then the singing-muster hasn't got no
eyes, has he?” said Miss Jerusha; “that's a pretty
story.”

“I don't mean, he hasn't got no eyes at all,” said
Jimmy, “only his eyes are dreadful little, and you
can't see but one of 'em to time neither, they're
twisted round so.”

“A little cross-eyed, I s'pose,” said Mrs. Brown,
“that's all; I don't think that hurts the looks of a
man a bit; it only makes him look a little sharper.”

While these things were transpiring at Mr.
Brown's, matters of weight and importance were
being discussed at the tavern. About a dozen of
the neighbors had collected there early in the evening,
and every one, as soon as he found that Mr.
Christopher Crotchet from Quavertown was in the
village, was for having a singing-school forthwith,
cost what it would. They accordingly proceeded
at once to ascertain Mr. Crotchet's terms. His
proposals were, to keep twenty evenings for twenty
dollars and “found,” or for thirty and board himself.
The school to be kept three evenings in a
week. A subscription-paper was opened, and the
sum of fifteen dollars was at last made up. But
that was the extent to which they could go; not
another dollar could be raised. Much anxiety was
now felt for the arrival of Squire Brown; for the
question of school or no school depended entirely
on him.

“Squire Brown's got money enough,” said Mr.
Gibbs, “and if he only has the will, we shall have a
school.”

“Not exactly,” said Mr. Jones; “if Mrs. Brown
has the will, we shall have a school, let the Squire's
will be what it may.”

Before the laugh occasioned by this last remark
had fully subsided, Squire Brown entered, much to
the joy of the whole company.

“Squire Brown, I'm glad to see you,” said Mr.
Gibbs; “shall I introduce you to Mr. Christopher
Crotchet, singing-master from Quavertown.

The Squire was a very short man, somewhat inclined
to corpulence, and Mr. Crotchet, according
to Jimmy's account, was not quite as tall as a hay-pole;
so that by dint of the Squire's throwing his
head back and looking up, and Mr. Crotchet's canting
his head on one side in order to bring one eye
to bear on the Squire, the parties were brought
within each other's field of vision. The Squire
made a bow, which was done by throwing his head
upward, and Mr. Crotchet returned the compliment
by extending his arm downward to the Squire and
shaking hands.

When the ceremony of introduction was over,
Mr. Gibbs laid the whole matter before Mr. Brown,
showed him the subscription-paper, and told him
they were all depending upon him to decide whether
they should have a singing-school or not. Squire
Brown put on his spectacles and read the subscription-paper
over two or three times, till he fully understood
the terms, and the deficiency in the amount
subscribed. Then without saying a word, he took
a pen and deliberately subscribed five dollars.
That settled the business; the desired sum was
raised, and the school was to go ahead. It was
agreed that it should commence on the following
evening, and that Mr. Crotchet should board with

Mr. Gibbs one week, with the Squire the next, and
so go round through the neighborhood.

On the following day there was no small commotion
among the young folks of the village, in
making preparation for the evening school. New
singing-books were purchased, dresses were prepared,
curling-tongs and crimping-irons were put
in requisition, and early in the evening the long
chamber in Gibbs' tavern, which was called by way
of eminence “the hall,” was well filled by youth of
both sexes, the old folks not being allowed to attend
that evening, lest the “boys and gals” should
be diffident about “sounding the notes.” A range
of long narrow tables was placed round three sides
of the hall, with benches behind them, upon which
the youth were seated. A singing-book and a candle
were shared by two, all round the room, till you
came to Miss Jerusha Brown, who had taken the
uppermost seat, and monopolized a whole book and
a whole candle to her own use. Betsey Buck, a
lively, reckless sort of a girl of sixteen, who cared
for nobody nor nothing in this world, but was full
of frolic and fun, had by chance taken a seat next
to Miss Jerusha. Miss Betsey had a slight inward
turn of one eye, just enough to give her a roguish
look, that comported well with her character.—
While they were waiting for the entrance of the
master, many a suppressed laugh, and now and then
an audible giggle, passed round the room, the mere
ebullitions of buoyant spirits and contagious mirth,
without aim or object. Miss Jerusha, who was trying
to behave her prettiest, repeatedly chided their
rudeness, and more than once told Miss Betsey
Buck, that she ought to be ashamed to be laughing
so much; “for what would Mr. Crotchet think, if
he should come in and find them all of a giggle?”

After a while the door opened, and Mr. Christopher
Crotchet entered. He bent his body slightly,

as he passed the door, to prevent a concussion of
his head against the lintel, and then walked very
erect into the middle of the floor, and made a short
speech to his class. His grotesque appearance
caused a slight tittering round the room, and Miss
Betsey was even guilty of an incipient audible
laugh, which however she had the tact so far to
turn into a cough as to save appearances. Still it
was observed by Miss Jerusha, who told her again
in a low whisper that she ought to be ashamed, and
added that “Mr. Crotchet was a most splendid man;
a beautiful man.”

After Mr. Crotchet had made his introductory
speech, he proceeded to try the voices of his pupils,
making each one alone follow him in rising and falling
the notes. He passed round without difficulty
till he came to Miss Betsey Buck. She rather hesitated
to let her voice be heard alone; but the master
told her she must sound, and holding his head
down so close to hers that they almost met, he commenced
pouring his faw, sole, law, into her ear.
Miss Betsey drew back a little, but followed with a
low and somewhat tremulous voice, till she had
sounded three or four notes, when her risible muscles
got the mastery, and she burst out in an unrestrained
fit of laughter.

The master looked confused and cross; and Miss
Jerusha even looked crosser than the master. She
again reproached Miss Betsey for her rudeness, and
told her in an emphatic whisper, which was intended
more especially for the master's ear, “that such
conduct was shameful, and if she couldn't behave
better she ought to stay at home.”

Miss Jerusha's turn to sound came next, and she
leaned her head full half way across the table to
meet the master's, and sounded the notes clear
through, three or four times over, from bottom to
top and from top to bottom; and sounded them

with a loudness and strength fully equal to that of
the master.

When the process of sounding the voices separately
had been gone through with, they were
called upon to sound together; and before the close
of the evening they were allowed to commence the
notes of some easy tunes. It is unnecessary here
to give a detailed account of the progress that was
made, or to attempt to describe the jargon of strange
sounds, with which Gibbs' hall echoed that night.
Suffice it to say, that the proficiency of the pupils
was so great, that on the tenth evening, or when
the school was half through, the parents were permitted
to be present, and were delighted to hear
their children sing Old Hundred, Mear, St. Martin,
Northfield, and Hallowell, with so much accuracy,
that those who knew the tunes, could readily tell,
every time, which one was being performed. Mrs.
Brown was almost in ecstacies at the performance,
and sat the whole evening and looked at Jerusha,
who sung with great earnestness and with a voice
far above all the rest. Even Squire Brown himself
was so much softened that evening, that his
face wore a sort of smile, and he told his wife “he
didn't grudge his five dollars, a bit.”

The school went on swimmingly. Mr. Crotchet
became the lion of the village; and Miss Jerusha
Brown “thought he improved upon acquaintance
astonishingly.” Great preparation was made at
Squire Brown's for the important week of boarding
the singing-master. They outdid all the village in
the quantity and variety of their eatables, and at
every meal Miss Jerusha was particularly assiduous
in placing all the good things in the neighborhood
on Mr. Crotchet's plate. In fact, so bountifully
and regularly was Mr. Crotchet stuffed during
the week, that his lank form began to assume a perceptible
fulness. He evidently seemed very fond

of his boarding place, especially at meal time; and
made himself so much at home, that Mrs. Brown
and Jerusha were in a state of absolute felicity the
whole week. It was true he spent two evenings
abroad during the week, and it was reported that
one of them was passed at Mr. Buck's. But Miss
Jerusha would not believe a word of such a story.
She said “there was no young folks at Mr. Buck's
except Betsey, and she was sure Mr. Crotchet was
a man of more sense than to spend his evenings
with such a wild, rude thing as Betsey Buck.”
Still, however, the report gave her a little uneasiness;
and when it was ascertained, that during the
week on which Mr. Crotchet boarded at Mr. Buck's
he spent every evening at home, except the three
devoted to the singing-school, Miss Jerusha's uneasiness
evidently increased. She resolved to make
a desperate effort to counteract these untoward influences,
and to teach Miss Betsey Buck not to interfere
with other folk's concerns. For this purpose
she made a grand evening party, and invited
all the young folks of the village, except Miss Buck,
who was pointedly left out. The treat was elaborate
for a country village, and Miss Jerusha was
uncommonly assiduous in her attentions to Mr.
Crotchet during the evening. But to her inexpressible
surprise and chagrin, about eight o'clock, Mr.
Crotchet put on his hat and great coat and bade the
company good night. Mrs. Brown looked very
blue, and Miss Jerusha's nerves were in a state of
high excitement. What could it mean? She
would give anything in the world to know where
he had gone. She ran up into the chamber and
looked out from the window. The night was rather
dark, but she fancied she saw him making his
way toward Mr. Buck's. The company for the remainder
of the evening had rather a dull time; and
Miss Jerusha passed almost a sleepless night.

The next evening Miss Jerusha was early at the
singing-school. She took her seat with a disconsolate
air, opened her singing-book and commenced
singing Hallowell in the following words:

On former occasions, when the scholars were
singing before school commenced, the moment the
master opened the door they broke off short, even
if they were in the midst of a tune. But now, when
the master entered, Miss Jerusha kept on singing.
She went through the whole tune after Mr. Crotchet
came in, and went back and repeated the latter
half of it with a loud and full voice, which caused a
laugh among the scholars, and divers streaks of red
to pass over the master's face.

At the close of the evening's exercises Miss Jerusha
hurried on her shawl and bonnet, and watched
the movements of the master. She perceived
he went out directly after Betsey Buck, and she
hastened after them with becoming speed. She
contrived to get between Miss Buck and the master
as they walked along the road, and kept Mr.
Crotchet in close conversation with her, or rather
kept herself in close conversation with Mr. Crotchet,
till they came to the corner that turned down to
Mr. Buck's house. Here Mr. Crotchet left her
somewhat abruptly, and walked by the side of Miss
Betsey toward Mr. Buck's. This was more than
Miss Jerusha's nerves could well bear. She was
under too much excitement to proceed on her way
home. She stopped and gazed after the couple as
they receded from her; and as their forms became
indistinct in the darkness of the night, she turned
and followed them, just keeping them in view till
they reachnd the house. The door opened, and to

her inexpressible horror, they both went in. It was
past ten o'clock, too! She was greatly puzzled.
The affair was entirely inexplicable to her. It could
not be, however, that he would stop many minutes,
and she waited to see the result. Presently a light
appeared in the “fore-room;” and from the mellowness
of that light a fire was evidently kindled there.
Miss Jerusha approached the house and reconnoitred.
She tried to look in at the window, but a
thick curtain effectually prevented her from seeing
anything within. The curtain did not reach quite
to the top of the window, and she thought she saw
the shadows of two persons before the fire, thrown
against the ceiling. She was determined by some
means or other to know the worst of it. She looked
round the door-yard and found a long piece of
board. She thought by placing this against the
house by the side of the window, she might be able
to climb up and look over the top of the curtain.
The board was accordingly raised on one end and
placed carefully by the side of the window, and Miss
Jerusha eagerly commenced the task of climbing.
She had reached the top of the curtain and cast one
glance into the room, where, sure enough, she beheld
Mr. Crotchet seated close by the side of Miss
Betsey. At this interesting moment, from some
cause or other, either from her own trembling, for
she was exceedingly agitated, or from the board
not being properly supported at the bottom, it slipped
and canted, and in an instant one half of the
window was dashed with a tremendous crash into
the room.

Miss Jerusha fell to the ground, but not being
much injured by the fall, she sprang to her feet and
ran with the fleetness of a wild deer. The door
opened, and out came Mr. Crotchet and Mr. Buck,
and started in the race. They thought they had a
glimpse of some person running up the road when

they first came out, and Mr. Crotchet's long legs
measured off the ground with remarkable velocity.
But the fright had added so essentially to Miss Jerusha's
powers of locomotion, that not even Mr.
Crotchet could overtake her, and her pursuers soon
lost sight of her in the darkness of the night, and
gave up the chase and returned home.

Miss Jerusha was not seen at the singing-school
after this, and Mrs. Brown said she stayed at home
because she had a cough. Notwithstanding there
were many rumors and surmises afloat, and some
slanderous insinuations thrown out against Miss Jerusha
Brown, yet it was never ascertained by the
neighbors, for a certainty, who it was that demolished
Mr. Buck's window.

One item farther remains to be added to this veritable
history; and that is, that in three months
from this memorable night, Miss Betsey Buck became
Mrs. Crotchet of Quavertown.

POSTSCRIPT.

BY MAJOR DOWNING.

When a lady or a politician writes a letter, you may generally
expect the most important idea to come into the postscript,
jest as the newspaper folks put in a postscript for the
latest news, and sometimes “stop the press” to announce it.
Whether my postscript here will be the most important thing
in the book, is not for me to say; but it is the latest news, so
I've stopt the press to put it in.

The American Review for June has made an outrageous attack
upon Daniel Webster, and my literature. It is a whig
Review, and therefore thinks Daniel Webster is small potatoes.
It is a literary Review, and therefore thinks my literature is

worse than nothin. According to my notion, Daniel is able
enough to hoe his own potatoes, and therefore I shant answer
for him; but I have a word or two to say for myself. What
is one's meat is another's pisen; and if the American Review
don't like my literature, it is because he doesn't know what is
good, for every body else eats it and likes it. But let us see
what the Review has to say about me.

[From the American Review for June, 1845.]

“American Letters.—Is there an American school of
writers? None, certainly, unless they who degrade and vulgarise
the tongue and the taste of the country by performances,
the whole merit of which consists in their adoption of particular
local slang (such as was employed in Major Downing's
Letters, or in the lucubrations of Sam Slick) are the models
of a new and noble literature that is to be for us. When these
things shall found for us a learning, the Ethiopian Minstrels
will create for us a Music, and the disciples of Jim Crow a
Theatre of our own.”

I am willing to believe, after reading the Publisher's Preface
to this little book, that there is a Downing school of literature
in the country, and that I had something to do with it.
But I did not know, before the American Review said so, that
mine was the only “American school of writers.” The New-York
Evening Gazette copies the paragraph from the Review,
and makes the following remarks about it, which I think prove
that the Gazette can tell a hawk from a handsaw if the Review
cant.

[From the Evening Gazette.]

“The writer of the above amusingly confounds `learning'
with genius in the quoted sentence; just as he elsewhere in
the same article confounds the honor which the production of
some great poem may confer upon the land which produced it,
with the poetic associations wherewith a song-writer like
Burns may clothe that land. We may never, in this country,
produce an Epic that will live; we may never, in these United
States, give birth to a Homer, a Milton, or Tasso, whose
world-renown may proudly reflect upon ourselves. But, a
hundred songs, from anonymous pens if you choose, having
half the merit of those which have given a mystic charm to
the braes and brooksides of the land of Burns, would still associate
a poetic feeling with the soil, that might be worth all
the glory of an Epic.

“In a word, we may be nationalized in literature as well
through our affections as through our intellect; just as we
may be more bound together by the characteristic strains of
a few national airs than by the production of an opera;—
while the organ of those airs, if they come from among the
many, will speak more for the general musical feeling of the
people than the composition of the grandest overture from the
hand of a Master.

“The learned Dr. Julius, who was sent here by the King of
Prussia, to make notes upon certain institutions of our country,
carried home with him a scroll of these very `Ethiopian
songs,' at which this Reviewer sneers, as affording proof as
striking as it was interesting, that we had the germs of a national
music among us; and when his large collection of minerals,
pamphlets, &c., &c., was destroyed in the great fire of
New-York, as he was on the eve of sailing for Europe—the
worthy Doctor, in trying to replace what he could, was particularly
careful to supply the place of those humble ditties
which had shared the fate of the vast mass of interesting materials
which he had been so indefatigable in bringing together
for his royal master.

“And now, as to the `Jack Downing and Sam Slick literature,'
which this sage Reviewer thinks has the one sole mission
of vulgarizing the tongue and the taste of the country. We
are not unwilling to admit that it may have, in some degree,
produced this effect; but we care not for a small evil if it be
inseparable from a great good. And this `literature' has
done good; for if not the first sign of our intellectual independence,
it certainly has aided vastly in breaking the servile
chain of provincial imitation. It established the independent
Republic of American jokedom upon the ruins of transplanted
cockneyism.”

Now, as for this ere difficulty between me and the editor of
the American Review, I shant stop to have any very long
yarn about it. If I was a great writer, as he is, I'd go at
him pell-mell and raise such a dust about his head that he
couldn't be seen again this six months. But I'm only a plain,
blunt man, that speaks right on, and tells folks what they already
know. I'm something like that old Roman that Mr.
Shakspeare tells about—for I do read Shakspeare sometimes
in winter evenings, and like it, it's full of meat as an oyster—
so I say I'm something like that old Roman, “for I have
neither wit, nor worth, nor words, action, nor utterance, nor

power of speech to stir men's blood;” and all I can do is to
point my adversary to the pens of his editorial brethren,
“poor, poor, dumb mouths, and bid them speak for me.”

The New-York Mirror,—I mean the old Mirror—five or six
years ago, speaking of some of my writings published at that
time, says:

“These are the most graphic and really the best Yankee
papers we have ever seen, or expect to see, let who wil write
them. Their author has struck at a new line in literature,
more piquant, racy, and original, than that adopted by `Boz.'
We like him none the less for being `native here, and to the
manor born;' for we are among those who can appreciate
a good production, even before it has received the commendation
of foreign critics.”

The New-York Morning Despatch, April 22, 1839, speaking
of the same writings, says:

“The author has the richest and most natural Yankee dialect
of any writer who has attempted to give the peculiarities
of Jonathan. The wit is real, attic, and something more than
poor orthography.”

The New-Yorker, May 25th, 1839, speaking of the same
writings, says:

“It is enough to observe that they emanate from the pen of
the original author of the Jack Downing Letters. His Yankee
stories and style are very diverting, and possess an originality
and fidelity, which are not discernable in the writings
of a numerous horde of imitators.”

The New-York Courier and Enquirer, July 3, 1839, speaks
of the same writings as follows:

“There is no doubt that the author of this little volume is
the best painter of Yankee peculiarities that ever wrote. He
is true to nature and never caricatures, but without caricaturing,
is most amusing.”

There, I might go on in this way and fill up another book.
But I shan't do it; for if the American Reviewer won't believe
the witnesses I've already brought up, I don't spose he
would believe it if my dear old friend the Gineral should come
back and tell him he was a goose.

So I shall here bid my readers good-by till next time.