Two or three days afterwards, a man covered with mud and sweat, came rushing into Washington. He paused not, nor turned not right or left, until he found the office of the "Argus of Freedom," where he rushed in, and confronting the editor, he spluttered forth:—
"You der printer of dish paper,—der noosh paper?"
"Yes," says the 'responsible,' "I am the man," looking a little wild.
"Vell, bine de great Jehosaphat, what for you'n make me deat?"
"Me? Make you dead?" says the no little astonished editor.
"Yaas!" bawled old Jake, for it was he—"You'n tell de people I diet; it's a lie! And do you neber do it again, and fool de peeples, witout you git a written order from me!"
That editor, ever afterwards, insisted on seeing the funeral before he recorded an obituary notice.
What's Going to Happen.
In fifty years the steam engine will be as old a notion, and as queer an invention, as the press Ben. Franklin worked is now. In fifty years, copper-plate, steel-plate, lithography, and other fine engravings, will be multiplied for a mere song, in a beautiful manner, by the now infantile art of Daguerreotyping. A passage to California will then be accomplished in twenty-four hours, by air carriages and electricity; or, perhaps, they'll go in buckets down Artesian holes, clean through the earth! The arts of agriculture and horticulture will produce hams ready roasted, natural pies, baked with all sorts of cookies. About that time, a man may live forever at a cent a day, and sell for all he's worth at last—for soap fat!