The Humors of Falconbridge

"Good conscience! are you going to have that over again?" cries Mrs. Fitz, with the utmost chagrin.

"The old white pine table – "

Mrs. Fitz starts in horror.

"My father's old chest, and your mother's old corner cupboard!"

Mrs. Fitz, in an agony, walks the floor!

"The few broken or cracked pots, pans and dishes, we had – "

Nature quite "gin eout" – the exhausted Mrs. Fitzfaddle throws herself down upon the sumptuous conversazione, and absorbs her grief in the ample folds of a lace-wrought handkerchief (bought at Warren's – cost the entire profits of ten quintals of Fitzfaddle & Co.'s A No. 1 cod!), while the imperturbable Fitz drives on —

"Your mother's old cooking stove, Susan – the time and again, Susan, I've sat in that little kitchen – "

Mrs. Fitzfaddle shudders all over. Each reminiscence, so dear to Fitzfaddle, seems a dagger to her.

"With little Nanny – "

"You – you brute! You – you vulgar – you – you Fitzfaddle. Nanny! to call your daughter N-Nanny!"

"Nanny! why, yes, Nanny – " says the matter-of-fact head of the firm of Fitzfaddle & Co. "I believe we did intend to call the girl Nancy; we did call her Nanny, Mrs. Fitzfaddle; but, like all the rest, by your innovations, things have kept changing no better fast. I believe my soul that girl has had five changes in her name before you concluded it was up to the highest point of modern respectability. From Nancy you had it Nannette, from Nannette to Ninna, from Ninna to Naomi, and finally it was rested at Anna Antoinette De Orville Fitzfaddle! Such a mess of nonsense to handle my plain name."

"Anna Antoinette De Orville" – said Mrs. Fitz, suddenly rallying, "is a name, only made plain by your ugly and countryfied prefix. De Orville is a name," said the lady.

"I should like to know," said the old gentleman, "upon what pretext, Mrs. Fitzfaddle, you lay claim to such a Frenchy and flighty name or title as De Orville?"

"Wasn't it my family name, you brute?" cried Mrs. Fitz.

"Ho! ho! ho! Sook, Sook, Sook," says Fitzfaddle.

"Sook!" almost screams Mrs. Fitz.

"Yes, Sook, Sook Scovill, daughter of a good old-fashioned, patriotic farmer —Timothy Scovill, of Tanner's Mills, in the county of Tuggs – down East. And when I married Sook (Mrs. Fitz jumped up, a rustling of silk is heard – a door slams, and the old gentleman finishes his domestic narrative, solus!), she was as fine a gal as the State ever produced. We were poor, and we knew it; wasn't discouraged or put out, on the account of our poverty. We started in the world square; happy as clams, nothing but what was useful around us; it is a happy reflection to look back upon those old chairs, pine table, my father's old chest, and Sook's mother's old corner cupboard – the cracked pots and pans – the old stove – Sook as ruddy and bright as a full-blown rose, as she bent over the hot stove in our parlor, dining room, and kitchen – turning her slap-jacks, frying, baking and boiling, and I often by her side, with our first child, Nanny, on my – "

"Well, I hope by this time you're over your vulgar Pigginsborough recollections, Fitzfaddle!" exclaims Mrs. Fitz, re-entering the parlor.

"I was just concluding, my dear, the happy time when I sat and read to you, or held Nanny, while you – "

"Fitzfaddle, for goodness' sake – "

"While you – ruddy and bright, my dear, as the full-blown rose, bent over your mother's old cook stove – "

"Are you crazy, Fitz, or do you want to craze me?" cried the really tried woman.

"Turning your slap-jacks," continues Fitz, suiting the action to the word.

"Fitzfaddle!" cries Mrs. Fitz, in the most sublimated paroxysm of pity and indignation, but Fitz let it come.

"While I dandled Nanny on my knee!"

A pause ensues; Fitzfaddle, in contemplation of the past, and Mrs. Fitz fortifying herself for the opening of a campaign to come. At length, after a deal of "dicker," Fitz remembering only the bad dinners, small rooms, large bills, sick, parboiled state of the children, clash and clamor of his trips to the Springs, sea-side and mountain resorts; and Mrs. Fitz dwelling over the strong opposition (show and extravagance) she had run against the many ambitious shop-keepers' wives, tradesmen's, lawyers' and doctors' daughters – Mrs. Fitz gained her point, and the family, – Mrs. Fitz, the two now marriageable daughters – Anna Antoinette De Orville, and Eugenia Heloise De Orville, and Alexander Montressor De Orville, and two servants – start in style, for the famed city of Hull!

It was yet early in the season, and Fitzfaddle had secured, upon accommodating terms, rooms &c., of Mrs. Fitzfaddle's own choosing. With the diplomacy of five prime ministers, and with all the pride, pomp and circumstance of a fine-looking woman of two-and-forty, – husband rich, and indulgent at that; armed with two "marriageable daughters," you may – if at all familiar with life at a "watering-place," fancy Mrs. Fitzfaddle's feelings, and perhaps, also, about a third of the swarth she cut. The first evident opposition Mrs. Fitz encountered, was from the wife of a wine merchant. This lady made her entree at – House, with a pair of bays and "body servant," two poodles, and an immensity of band boxes, patent leather trunks, and – her husband. The first day Mrs. Oldport sat at table, her new style of dress, and her European jewels, were the afternoon talk; but at tea, the Fitzfaddles spread, and Mrs. Oldport was bedimmed, easy; the next day, however, "turned up" an artist's wife and daughter, whose unique elegance of dress and proficiency in music took down the entire collection! Mrs. Michael Angelo Smythe and daughter captivated two of Mrs. Fitzfaddle's "circle" – a young naval gent and a 'quasi Southern planter, much to her chagrin and Fitzfaddle's pecuniary suffering; for next evening Mrs. F. got up, – to get back her two recruits – a grand private hop, at a cost of $130! And the close of the week brought such a cloud of beauty, jewels, marriageable daughters and ambitious mothers, wives, &c., that Mrs. Fitzfaddle got into such a worry with her diplomatic arrangements, her competitions, stratagems, – her fuss, her jewels, silks, satins and feathers, that a nervous-headache preceded a typhus fever, and the unfortunate lady was forced to retire from the field of her glory at the end of the third week, entirely prostrated; and poor Jonas Fitzfaddle out of pocket – more or less —five hundred dollars! The last we heard of Fitzfaddle, he was apostrophizing the good old times when he rejoiced in five old chairs – cook stove – slap-jacks, &c.!

Putting Me on a Platform!

Human nature doubtless has a great many weak points, and no few bipeds have a great itching after notoriety and fame. Fame, I am credibly informed, is not unlike a greased pig, always hard chased, but too eternal slippery for every body to hold on to! I have never cared a tinker's curse for glory myself; the satisfaction of getting quietly along, while in pursuit of bread, comfort and knowledge, has sufficed to engross my individual attention; but I've often "had my joke" by observing the various grand dashes made by cords of folks, from snob to nob, patrician to plebeian, in their gyrations to form a circle, in which they might be the centre pin! This desire, or feeling, is a part and parcel of human nature; you will observe it every where – among the dusky and man-eating citizens of the Fejee Islands – the dog-eating population of China – the beef-eaters of England, and their descendants, ye Yankoos of the new world; all, all have a tendency for lionization.

This very innocent pastime finds a great many supporters, too; toadyism is the main prop that sustains and exalteth the vain glory of man; if you can only get a toady– the more the better – you can the sooner and firmer fix your digits upon the greased pig of fame; but as thrift must always follow fawning, or toadyism, it is most essentially necessary that you be possessed of a greater or lesser quantity of the goods and chattels of this world, or some kind of tangible effects, to grease the wheels of your emollient supporters; otherwise you will soon find all your air-built castles, dignity and glory, dissolve into mere gas, and your stern in the gravel immediately.

Such is the pursuit of glory, and such its supporters, their gas and human weakness. I have said that I never sought distinction, but I have had it thrust upon me more than once, and the last effort of the kind was so particularly salubrious, that I must relate to you, confidentially of course, how it came about.

When I first came to Boston, as a matter of course, I spent much of my time in surveying "the lions," dipping into this, and peeping into that; promenading the Common and climbing the stupendous stairway of Bunker Hill; ransacking the forts, islands, beautiful Auburn, &c., &c.

Finally, I went into the State House, but as this notable building was undergoing some repairs, placards were tacked up about the doors, prohibiting persons from strolling about the capitol. The attendant was very polite, and told me, and several others desirous to see the building inside, that if we called in the course of a few days, we could be gratified, but for the present no one but those engaged about the work, were allowed to enter. I persisted so closely in my desire to examine the interior, while on the spot, that the man, when the rest of the visitors had gone, relented, and I was not only allowed to see what I should see, but he toted me "round."

We sauntered into the Assembly Chamber, surveyed and learned all the particulars of that, peered into the side-rooms, closets, &c., and then came to the Senate Chamber. This you know is something finer than the country meeting house, or circus-looking Assembly Chamber, where the "fresh-men," or green members from Hard-Scrabble, Hull, Squantum, etc., – incipient Demostheneses, and sucking Ciceros, first tap their gasometers "in the haouse." Here I found the venerable pictures of the ancient mugs, who have figured as Governors, &c., of the commonwealth, from the days of Puritan Winthrop to the ever-memorable Morton, who, strange as it may appear, was really elected Governor, though a double-distilled Democrat. Bucklers, swords, drums and muskets, that doubtless rattled and banged away upon Bunker Hill, were duly, carefully and critically examined, and as a finale to my debut in the Senate, I mounted the Speaker's stand, and spouted about three feet of Webster's first oration at Bunker Hill. To be sure, my audience was small, but it was duly attentive, and as I waved my hands aloft, and thumped my ribs, after the most approved system of patriotic vehemence of the day, he – my audience – opened his mouth, and stretched his eyes to the size of dinner plates, at my prodigious slaps at eloquence; the very ears of the canvased governors seemed pricked up, and I descended the stand big as Mogul, insinuated "a quarter" into the palm of the polite attendant, informed him I should call in a few days to take a view from the top of the dome, &c. He bowed and I took myself off.

Several days afterwards I found myself in the vicinity of the State House; so, thinks I, I'll just drop in, and go up to the top of the dome and get a view of the city and suburbs.

My chaperon was on hand, and he no sooner clapped eyes upon me, than he pitched into all manner of highfernooten flub-dubs, bowed and scraped, and regretted that the day was so misty and dull, as I would not be enabled to have half a chance to get a view.

"I wouldn't try it to-day, sir," said he.

"What's the reason?" asked I.

"Oh," replied he, "you'll not see half the outline of the city and the villages around, and you'll want to get them all down distinct."

"Get them all down distinct?" quoth I.

"Yes, sir; and the day is so dull and cloudy that you'll not see half the prominent buildings, never mind the whole of the former and not so easily seen houses. You intend taking a full view, don't you, sir?"

"Why, yes, I would like to," says I, partly lost to conceive what caused such a sudden and unaccountable ebullition of the man's great interest in my getting "a first rate notice" of matters and things from the top of the capitol! But up I went, in spite of my attentive friend's fears of my not getting quite so clear and distinct a view as he could wish. Having gratified myself with such a view as the weather and the height of the capitol afforded (and in clear weather you can get far the best survey of Boston and the environs from the top of the State House than from any other promontory about), I descended again. At the foot of the stairway my assiduous cicerone again beset me, introduced several other miscellaneous-looking chaps to me, and, in short, was making of me, why or wherefore I knew not, quite a lion!

"Well, sir," said he, "what do you think of it, sir? Could you get the outline?"

"Not very well," said I, "but the view is very fine."

"O, yes, sir," said he; "but as soon as you wish to begin, sir, let me know, and I'll lock the upper doors when you go up, and you'll not be disturbed, sir."

"Lock the doors?" said I, in some amazement.

"Yes, sir," quoth he, "but it would be best to come as early in the morning as possible, or, if convenient, before the visitors begin to come up; they'd disturb you, you know!"

"Disturb me! Why, I don't know how they would do that?"

"Why, sir, when Mr. Smith – you know Mr. Smith, sir, I suppose?"

"Why, yes; the name strikes me as somewhat familiar; do you refer to John Smith?" I observed, beginning to participate in the joke, which began to develop itself pretty distinctly.

"Yes, sir; I believe his name is John – John R. Smith; he's a splendid artist, sir; his sketch or panorama is a beauty! Sir! did you ever see his panorama?"

"I think I did, in New York," I replied.

By this time some dozen or two visitors had congregated around us, and I was the centre of a considerable circle, and from the whispers, and pointing of fingers, I felt duly sensible, that, great or small, I was a lion! Under what auspices, I was in too dense a fog to make out; to me it was an unaccountable mist'ry.

"I'll tell you what I can do, sir," continued my toady; "I can have a small platform erected, outside of the cupola, for you, to place your designs or sketches on, and you'll not be so liable to be disturbed. Mr. Smith, he had a platform made, sir."

I beckoned the man to step aside, in the Senate Chamber.

"Now, sir," said I, "you will please inform me, who the devil do you take me for?"

"Oh, I knew who you were, the moment you came in, sir," said he, with a very knowing leer out of his half-squinting eyes.

"Did you? Well then I must certainly give you credit for devilish keen perception; but, if it's a fair question," I continued, "what do you mean by fixing a platform for my designs? You don't think I'm going to fly, jump or deliver orations from the cupola, do you?"

"No, I don't; but you're to draw a grand panorama of Boston, ain't you?"

"Me?"

"Yes, you; ain't your name Mr. Banvard?"

"Oh, yes, yes – I understand – you've found me out, but keep dark – mum's the word – you understand?" said I, winkingly.

"Yes, sir; I'll fix it all right; you'll want the platform outside, I guess."

"Yes; out with it, and keep dark until I come!"

I skeeted down them steps into the Common to let off my corked up risibilities. – Whether the man actually did prepare a platform for my designs, or whether Banvard ever went to take his designs there, I am unable to say, as I went South a few days afterward, and did not return for some time.

The Exorbitancy of Meanness

Few extravaganzas of man or woman lay such a heavy stress upon the pocket-book or purse as meanness. This may seem paradoxical, but it's nothing of the kind. How many thousands to save a cent, walk a mile! How many to cut down expenses, cut off a thousand of the little "filling ins" which go to make us both happy and healthy! Jones refused to let his little boy run an errand for Johnson, and when Jones's house was in a blaze, Johnson forbid him touching his water to put it out. Smith by accident ran his wagon afoul of Peppers's cart, Peppers in revenge "cut away" at Smith's horse; horse ran away, broke the wagon, dislocated Smith's collar-bone; a suit at law followed, and Peppers being a mighty spunky, as well as a powerfully mean man, fought it out four years, and finally sunk every cent he had in the world by the slight transaction. It is a first-rate idea to be economical, but the man who sees and feels, and smells and tastes, entirely through his pocket-book, isn't worth cultivating an acquaintance with. Go in, marry money if you can, save up some, but don't cultivate meanness, for it never pays.

"Taking Down" a Sheriff

Ex-honorable John Buck, once the "representative" of a district out West, a lawyer originally, and finally a gentleman at large, and Jeremy Diddler generally, took up his quarters in Philadelphia, years ago, and putting himself upon his dignity, he managed for a time, sans l'argent, to live like a prince. Buck was what the world would call a devilish clever fellow; he was something of a scholar, with the smattering of a gentleman; good at off-hand dinner table oratory, good looking, and what never fails to take down the ladies, he wore hair enough about his countenance to establish two Italian grand dukes. Buck was "an awful blower," but possessed common-sense enough not to waste his gas-conade – ergo, he had the merit not to falsify to ye ancient falsifiers.

The Honorable Mr. Buck's manner of living not being "seconded" by a corresponding manner of means, he very frequently ran things in the ground, got in debt, head and heels. The Honorable Mr. B. had patronized a dealer in Spanish mantles, corduroys and opera vests, to the amount of some two hundred dollars; and, very naturally, ye fabricator of said cloth appurtenances for ye body, got mad towards the last, and threatened "the Western member" with a course of legal sprouts, unless he "showed cause," or came up and squared the yards. As Hon. John Buck had had frequent invitations to pursue such courses, and not being spiritually or personally inclined that way, he let the notice slide.

Shears, the tailor, determined to put the Hon. John through; so he got out a writ of the savagest kind – arson, burglary and false pretence – and a deputy sheriff was soon on the taps to smoke the Western member out of his boots. Upon inquiring at the United States Hotel, where the honorable gentleman had been wont to "put up," they found he had vacated weeks before and gone to Yohe's Hotel. Thither, the next day, the deputy repaired, but old Mother Yohe – rest her soul! – informed the officer that the honorable gentleman had stepped out one morning, in a hurry like, and forgot to pay a small bill!

John was next traced to the Marshall House, where he had left his mark and cleared for Sanderson's, where the indefatigable tailor and his terrier of the law, pursued the member, and learned that he had gone to Washington!

"Done! by Jeems!" cried Shears.

"Hold on," says the deputy, "hold on; he's not off; merely a dodge to get away from this house; we'll find him. Wait!"

Shears did wait, so did the deputy sheriff, until other bills, amounting to a good round sum, were lodged at the Sheriff's office, and the very Sheriff himself took it in hand to nab the cidevant M. C., and cause him to suffer a little for his country and his friends!

Now, it so chanced that Sheriff F., who was a politician of popular renown – a good, jolly fellow – knew the Hon. Mr. Buck, having had "the pleasure of his acquaintance" some months previous, and having been floored in a political argument with the "Western member," was inclined to be down upon him.

"I'll snake him, I'll engage," says Sheriff F., as he thrust "the documents" into his pocket and proceeded to hunt up the transgressor. Accidentally, as it were, who should the Sheriff meet, turning a corner into the grand trottoir, Chestnut street, but our gallant hero of ye ballot-box in the rural districts, once upon a time!

"Ah, ha-a-a! How are ye, Sheriff?" boisterously exclaims the Ex-M. C., as familiarly as you please.

"Ah, ha! Mr. Buck," says the Sheriff, "glad (?) to see you."

"Fine day, Sheriff?"

"Elegant, sir, prime," says the Sheriff.

"What do you think of Mr. Jigger's speech on the Clam trade? Did you read Mr. Porkapog's speech on the widening of Jenkins's ditch?"

For which general remarks on the affairs of the nation, Sheriff F. put some corresponding replies, and so they proceeded along until they approached a well-known dining saloon, then under the supervision of a burly Englishman; and, as it was about the time people dined, and the Sheriff being a man that liked a fat dinner and a fine bottle, about as well as any body, when the Hon. Mr. Buck proposed —

"What say you, Sheriff, to a dinner and a bottle of old Sherry, at – ? We don't often meet (?), so let's sit down and have a quiet talk over things."

"Well, Mr. Buck," says the Sheriff, "I would like to, just as soon as not, but I've got a disagreeable bit of business with you, and it would be hardly friendly to eat your dinner before apprizing you of the fact, sir."

"Ah! Sheriff, what is it, pray?" says the somewhat alarmed Diddler; "nothing serious, of course?"

"Oh, no, not serious, particularly; only a writ, Mr. Buck; a writ, that's all."

"For my arrest?"

"Your arrest, sir, on sight," says the Sheriff.

"The deuce! What's the charge!"

"Debt – false pretence —swindling!"

"Ha! ha! that is a good one!" says the slight'y cornered Ex-M. C.; "well, hang it, Sheriff, don't let business spoil our digestion; come, let us dine, and then I'm ready for execution!" says the "Western member," with well affected gaiety.

Stepping into a private room, they rang the bell, and a burly waiter appeared.

"Now, Mr. F.," says the adroit Ex-M. C., "call for just what you like; I leave it to you, sir."

"Roast ducks; what do you say, Buck?"

"Good."

"Oyster sauce and lobster salad?"

"Good," again echoes the Ex-M. C.

"And a – Well, waiter, you bring some of the best side dishes you have," says the Sheriff.

"Yes, sir," says the waiter, disappearing to fill the order.

"What are you going to drink, Sheriff?" asks the honorable gent.

"Oh! ah, yes! Waiter, bring us a bottle of Sherry; you take Sherry, Buck?"

"Yes, I'll go Sherry."

The Sherry was brought, and partly discussed by the time the dinner was spread.

"They keep the finest Port here you ever tasted," says the Diddler.

"Do they!" he responds; "well, suppose we try it?"

A bottle of old Port was brought, and the two worthies sat back and really enjoyed themselves in the saloon of the sumptuously kept restaurant; they then drank and smoked, until sated nature cried enough, and the Sheriff began to think of business.

"Suppose we top off with a fine bottle of English ale, Sheriff!"

"Well, be it so; and then, Buck, we'll have to proceed to the office."

"Waiter, bring me a couple of bottles of your English ale," says the Hon. Mr. Buck.

"Yes, sir."

"And I'll see to the bill, Sheriff, while the waiter brings the ale," said the Ex-M. C., leaving the room "for a moment," to speak to the landlord.

"Landlord," says the Diddler, "do you know that gentleman with whom I've dined in 15?"

"No, I don't," says the landlord.

"Well," continues Diddler, "I've no particular acquaintance with him; he invited me here to dine; I suppose he intends to pay for what he ordered, but (whispering) you had better get your money before he gets out of that room!"

"Oh! oh! coming that are dodge, eh? I'll show him!" said the burly landlord, making tracks for the room, from which the Sheriff was now emerging, to look after his prisoner.

"There's for the ale," says the Diddler, placing half a dollar in the waiter's hand; "I ordered that, and there's for it." So saying, he vamosed.