Seba Smith.

BORN in Buckfield, Me., 1792. DIED at Patchogue, Long Island, N. Y., 1868.

A DOWN-EAST BARTER.

[Life and Writings of Major Jack Downing, of Downingville, State of Maine. 1833.]

AFTER I had walked about three or four hours I come along towards

the upper part of the town where I found there were stores and shops of all sorts and sizes. And I met a feller, and says I, what place is this? Why this, says he, is Huckler's Row. What, says I, are these the stores where the traders in Huckler's Row keep? And says he, yes. Well then, thinks I to myself, I have a pesky good mind to go in and have a try with one of these chaps, and see if they can twist my eye teeth out. If they can get the best end of a bargain out of me, they can do what there aint a man in Downingville can do, and I should jest like to know what sort of stuff these ere Portland chaps are made of. So in I goes into the best-looking store among 'em. And I see some biscuit lying on the shelf, and says I, Mister, how much do you ax apiece for them are biscuit? A cent apiece, says he. Well, says I, I shant give you that, but if you've a mind to, I'll give you two cents for three of 'em, for I begin to feel a little as though I should like to take a bite. Well, says he, I wouldn't sell 'em to anybody else so, but seeing it's you I dont care if you take 'em. I knew he lied, for he never see me before in his life. Well he handed down the biscuits and I took 'em, and walked round the store a while to see what else he had to sell. At last, says I, Mister, have you got any good new cider? Says he, yes, as good as ever you see. Well, says I, what do you ax a glass for it? Two cents, says he. Well, says I, seems to me I feel more dry than I do hungry now. Aint you a mind to take these ere biscuit again and give me a glass of cider? And says he, I dont care if I do; so he took and laid 'em on the shelf again, and poured out a glass of cider. I took the cider and drinkt it down, and to tell the truth it was capital good cider. Then, says I, I guess it's time for me to be a going, and I stept along towards the door. But, says he, stop Mister. I believe you haven't paid me for the cider. Not paid you for the cider, says I, what do you mean by that? Didn't the biscuit that I give you jest come to the cider? Oh, ah, right, says he. So I started to go again; and says he, but stop, Mister, you didn't pay me for the biscuit. What, says I, do you mean to impose upon me? do you think I am going to pay you for the biscuit and let you keep 'em tu? Aint they there now on your shelf, what more do you want? I guess sir, you dont whittle me in that way.

So I turned about and marched off, and left the feller staring and thinking and scratching his head, as though he was struck with a dunderment. Howsomever, I didn't want to cheat him, only jest to show 'em it want so easy a matter to pull my eye teeth out, so I called in next day and paid him his two cents. Well I staid at Ant Sally's a week or two, and I went about town every day to see what chance I could find to trade off my ax handles, or hire out, or find some way or other to begin to seek my fortune.

I

THE TAX ON OLD BACHELORS.

[From the Same.]

DREAMED a dream in the midst of my slumbers,

And, as fast as I dreamed, it was coined into numbers;

My thoughts ran along in such beautiful metre,

I'm sure I ne'er saw any poetry sweeter.

It seemed that a law had been recently made,

That a tax on old bachelors' pates should be laid;
And in order to make them all willing to marry,

The tax was as large as a man could well carry.
The Bachelors grumbled, and said 'twas no use,

'Twas cruel injustice and horrid abuse,

And declared that, to save their own heart's blood from spilling,

Of such a vile tax they would ne'er pay a shilling.

But the Rulers determined their scheme to pursue,

So they set all the bachelors up at vendue.

A crier was sent thro' the town to and fro,

To rattle his bell, and his trumpet to blow,

And to bawl out at all he might meet in the way,
"Ho! forty old bachelors sold here to-day."
And presently all the old maids in the town,
Each one in her very best bonnet and gown,
From thirty to sixty, fair, plain, red and pale,
Of every description, all flocked to the sale.
The auctioneer then in his labors began,
And called out aloud, as he held up a man,
"How much for a bachelor? who wants to buy?"
In a twink every maiden responded-"I-I."
In short, at a hugely extravagant price,
The bachelors all were sold off in a trice;
And forty old maidens, some younger, some older,
Each lugged an old bachelor home on her shoulder.

CAPTAIN DOWNING CARRIES THE NEWS TO "OLD HICKORY."

[From the Same.]

WASHINGTON CITY, Nov. 5, 1832.

To the editor of the Portland Courier, in the Mariners' Church building, 2d story, eastern end, Fore Street, Portland, away down east, in the State of Maine.

MY

Y DEAR OLD FRIEND.-Here I am back again to Washington, though I've been as far as Baltimore on my way down east to see you and the rest of my uncles and aunts and couzins. And what do you think I posted back to Washington for? I can tell you. When I got to Baltimore I met an express coming on full chisel from Philadel phia, to carry the news to Washington that Pennsylvania had gone all hollow for Old Hickory's second election. The poor fellow that was carrying it had got so out of breath, that he declared he couldn't go no further if the President never heard of it.

Well, thinks I, it will be worth a journey back to Washington, jest to see the old gineral's eyes strike fire when he hears of it. So says I, I'll take it and carry it on for you if you are a mind to. He kind of hesitated at first, and was afraid I might play a trick upon him; but when he found out my name was Jack Downing, he jumped off his horse quick enough; I'll trust it with you, says he, as quick as I would with the President himself. So I jumped on and whipped up. And sure enough, as true as you are alive, I did get to Washington before dark, though I had but three hours to go it in, and its nearly forty miles. It was the smartest horse that ever I backed, except one that belongs to the President. But, poor fellow, he's so done tu I guess he'll never run another express. Jest before I got to Washington, say about two miles from the city, the poor fellow keeled up and couldn't go another step. I had lost my hat on the way and was too much in a hurry to pick it up, and he had thrown me off twice and torn my coat pretty bad, so that I didn't look very trig to go through the city or go to the President's fine house. But notwithstanding, I knew the President would overlook it, considering the business I was coming upon; so I catched the express and pulled foot, right through Pennsylvany Avenue, without any hat, and torn coat sleeves and coat tail flying. The stage offered to carry me, but I thought I wouldn't stop for it.

Almost the first person I met was Mr. Duff Green. Says he, Capt. Downing, what's the matter? I held up the express and shook it at him, but never answered him a word, and pulled on. He turned and walked as fast as he could without running, and followed me. Pretty soon I met Mr. Gales of the "Intelligencer," and says he, for mercy sake, Captain Downing, what's the matter? Have you been chased by a

wolf, or Governor Houston, or have you got news from Pennsylvania? I didn't turn to the right nor left, but shook the express at him and run like wild-fire.

When I came up to the President's house, the old gentleman was standing in the door. He stepped quicker than I ever see him before, and met me at the gate. Says he, my dear friend Downing, what's the matter? Has the United States Bank been trying to bribe you, and are you trying to run away from 'em? They may buy over Webster and Clay and such trash, but I knew if they touched you they would get the wrong pig by the ear. As he said this, Duff Green hove in sight,

puffing and blowing, full speed.

Oh, said the President, Duff Green wants to have a lick at you, does he? Well dont retreat another step, Mr. Downing, I'll stand between you and harm. Upon that he called his boy and told him to bring his pistols in a moment. By this time I made out to get breath enough jest to say Pennsylvany, and to shake the express at him. The old man's color changed in a minute. Says he, come in, Mr. Downing, come in, set down, dont say a word to Duff. So in we went, and shut the door. Now, says the President, looking as though he would route a regiment in five minutes, now speak and let me know whether I am a dead man or alive.

Gineral, says I, its all over with I wont hear a word of it, says he, stomping his foot. His eyes flashed fire so that I trembled and almost fell backwards. But I see he didn't understand me. Dear gineral, says I, it's all over with Clay and the Bank-at that he clapt his hands and jumpt up like a boy. I never see the President jump before, as much as I've been acquainted with him. In less than a minute he looked entirely like another man. His eyes were as calm and as bright as the moon jest coming out from behind a black thunder-cloud.

He clenched my hand and gave it such a shake, I didn't know but he would pull it off. Says he, Jack, I knew Pennsylvany never would desert me, and if she has gone for me I'm safe. And now if I dont make them are Bank chaps hug it, my name isn't Andrew Jackson. And after all, Jack, I aint so glad on my own account, that I'm re-elected, as I am for the country and Mr. Van Buren. This election has all been on Mr. Van Buren's account; and we shall get him in now to be President after me. And you know, Jack, that he's the only man after me, that's fit to govern this country.

The President has made me promise to stop and spend the night with him, and help him rejoice over the victory. But I haven't time to write any more before the mail goes.

Your loving friend,

VOL. V.-18

CAPT. JACK DOWNING.

James Hall.

BORN in Philadelphia, Penn., 1793. DIED near Cincinnati, Ohio, 1868.

BOYS OF THE BORDER.

[The Romance of Western History. 1857.]

ABOUT four years after the death of Col. Linn, an incident occurred

which is curiously illustrative of the vicissitudes of domestic life in the backwoods. Col. William Pope had built a house about five miles south of Louisville, and removed to it in the fall of 1784. There being no schools, he employed a teacher to instruct his own children at home, and for the same reason was induced to receive into his house the sons of some of his friends: among them were the two sons of Col. Linn, whose guardian he was.

In February, 1785, five of these boys, the two Linns, Brashear, Wells, and another, whose name is not recollected, went out one Saturday to hunt. The ages of these boys are not now known; they were little fellows, however, probably between the ages of nine and thirteen. They encamped for the night, near the bank of the Ohio, at a place where a wide scope of bottom-land was covered with heavy forest trees, and with ponds which were frequented by great numbers of swans, geese, and ducks. A snow fell during the night, and in the morning they found themselves surrounded by a party of Indians, who had lain near them in ambush, and who captured them. Brashear, being a very fleet runner, attempted to escape, but was overtaken, and secured with the rest. The elder Linn also attempted to run, but being stout and clumsy, and encumbered with some game which he had thrown over his shoulder, stumbled and fell, and was seized by a tawny warrior, who patted him on the back, and called him, in the Indian tongue, "the little fat bear;" while Brashear, on account of his agility, received the name of the "buck elk."

There are many incidents of this kind in the legends of the border; and there is nothing in history more striking than the address and presence of mind displayed by children, under such circumstances. Their mode of life, and education, render them prematurely vigilant and courageous. Accustomed from the first dawn of reason to sudden alarms, to the continual pressure of some impending danger, and to narratives of encounters and surprises, stratagems, and violence, they become familiar with peril, habitually watchful, and fertile of expedient. The child is father to the man; the boy is a young backwoodsman, eager for adventure, and not stricken with helpless terror when suddenly involved in