The Humors of Falconbridge

Now it chanced that Mr. Bulkley had a small farm, some distance from the town of Colchester, and found it necessary, the same day he wrote his opinion and advice to the brethren of the disaffected church, to drop a line to his farmer regarding the fixtures of said estate. Having written a long, and of course, elaborate "essay" to his brethren, he wound up the day's literary exertions with a despatch to the farmer, and after a reverie to himself, he directs the two documents, and next morning despatches them to their several destinations.

On Saturday evening a full and anxious synod of the belligerent churchmen took place in their tabernacle, and punctually, as promised, came the despatch from the Plato of the time and place, – Rev. John Bulkley. All was quiet and respectful attention. The moderator took up the document, broke the seal, opened and – a pause ensued, while dubious amazement seemed to spread over the features of the worthy president of the meeting.

"Well, brother Temple, how is it – what does Mr. Bulkley say?" and another pause followed.

"Will the moderator please proceed?" said another voice.

The moderator placed the paper upon the table, took off his spectacles, wiped the glasses, then his lips – replaced his specs upon his nose, and with a very broad grin, said:

"Brethren, this appears to me to be a very singular letter, to say the least of it!"

"Well, read it – read it," responded the wondering hearers.

"I will," and the moderator began:

"You will see to the repair of the fences, that they be built high and strong, and you will take special care of the old Black Bull."

There was a general pause; a silent mystery overspread the community; the moderator dropped the paper to a "rest," and gazing over the top of his glasses for several minutes, nobody saying a word.

"Repair the fences!" muttered the moderator at length.

"Build them strong and high!" echoed Deacon Potter.

"Take special care of the old Black Bull!" growled half the meeting.

Then another pause ensued, and each man eyed his neighbor in mute mystery.

A tall and venerable man now arose from his seat; clearing his voice with a hem, he spoke:

"Brethren, you seem lost in the brief and eloquent words of our learned adviser. To me nothing could be more appropriate to our case. It is just such a profound and applicable reply to us as we should have hoped and looked for, from the learned and good man, John Bulkley. The direction to repair the fences, is to take heed in the admission and government of our members; we must guard the church by our Master's laws, and keep out stray and vicious cattle from the fold! And, above all things, set a trustworthy and vigilant watch over that old black bull, who is the devil, and who has already broken into our enclosures and sought to desolate and lay waste the fair grounds of our church!"

The effect of this interpretation was electrical. All saw and took the force of Mr. Bulkley's cogent advice, and unanimously resolved to be governed by it; hence the old black bull was put hors du combat, and the church preserved its union!

Dobbs makes "a Pint."

Dobbs walked into a Dry Goodery, on Court street, and began to look around. A double jinted clerk immediately appeared to Dobbs.

"What can I do for you, sir?" says he.

"A good deal," says Dobbs, "but I bet you won't."

"I'll bet I will," says the knight of the yard-stick, "if I can."

"What'll you bet of that?" says the imperturbable Dobbs.

"I'll bet a fourpence!" says the clerk, with a cute nod.

"I'll go it," says Dobbs. "Now, trust me for a couple of dollars' wuth of yur stuffs!"

"Lost, by Ned!" says yard-stick. "Well, there's the fourpence."

"Thank you; call again when I want to trade!" says Dobbs.

"Do, if you please; wouldn't like to lose your custom," says the clerk, "no how."

Polite young man that – as soon as his chin vegetates, provided his dickey don't cut his throat, he'll be arter the gals, Dobbs thinks!

Used Up

I am tempted to believe, that few – very few men can start in the world – say at twenty, with a replete invoice of honesty, free and easy – kind, generous – good-natured disposition, and keep it up, until they greet their fortieth year. There are, doubtless, plenty of men – I hope there are, who would be entirely and perfectly generous-hearted, if they could, with any degree of consistency; and I know there are multitudes who wouldn't exhibit an honorable or manly trait, of any human description, if they could. That class thrive best, it appears to me – if the accumulation of dollars and dimes be Webster, Walker, or Scriptural interpretation of that sense – in this sublunary world. Meanness and dishonesty win what good nature and honesty lose, hence the more thrift to the former, and the less gain, pecuniarily considered, to the latter. The subject is very prolific, and as my present purpose is as much to point a humorous sketch as to adorn a moral, I needs must cut speculative philosophistics for facts, in the case of my friend John Jenks, an emphatic – "used up" good fellow.

Jenks started in this world with a first-rate opinion of himself and the rest of mankind. No man ever started with a larger capital of good nature, human benevolence, and common honesty, than honest John. Few men ever started with better general prospects, for "a good time," and plenty of it, than Jenks. He graduated with honor to himself and the Institute of his native State, and with but little knowledge beyond the college library and the social circles of his immediate friends. At twenty-three, John Jenks went into business on his own hook.

Of course John soon formed various and many business acquaintances; he learned that men were brothers – should love, honor, and respect one another, from precepts set him at his father's fireside. He formed the opinion, that this brotherhood was not to be alienated in matters of business, for he never refused to act kindly to all; he freely loaned his autograph and purse to his business acquaintances; but, being backed up by a snug business capital, he seldom felt the necessity of claiming like accommodation, or he would have gotten his eye teeth cut cheaper and sooner.

"Jenks," said a business man, stopping in at Jenks' counting room one September morning, "Perkins & Ball, I see, have stopped– gone to smash!"

"Have they?" quickly responded Jenks.

"They have, and a good many fingers will be burnt by them," replied the informant. "By the way, Barclay says you have some of their paper on hand; is it true?" continued the man.

"I have some, not much," answered Jenks – "not enough at all events to create any alarm as to their willingness or ability to take it up."

But in looking over his "accounts," Jenks found a considerably larger amount of Perkins & Ball's paper on hand, than an experienced business man might have contemplated with entire Christian resignation. The gazette, in the course of a few days, gave publicity to the smash of the house of Perkins, Ball & Co. There was a buzz "on 'change;" those losers by the smash were bitter in their denunciatory remarks, while those gaining by the transaction snickered in their sleeves and kept mum. Jenks heard all, and said nothing. He reasoned, that if the firm were smashed by imprudences, or through dishonest motives, they were getting "an elegant sufficiency" of public and private vituperation, without his aid. Though far from his thoughts of entering into such "lists," and inclined to hold on and see how things come out – Jenks, for the credit of common humanity, seldom recapitulated the amount, by discounting, &c. – he was likely to be in for, if P. & B. were really "done gone." This resolve, like some rules, worked both ways.

As "honest John" was drawing on his gloves to leave his commercial institution, after the above occurrences had had some ten days' grace; one evening, the senior partner of the house of Perkins & Ball came in. Greetings were cordial, and in the private office of Jenks, an hour's discourse took place between the merchants; which, in brief transcription, may be summed up in the fact, that Jenks received a two-third indemnification on all his liabilities for the smashed house of P. & B., which the senior partner assured him, arose from the fact of his, Jenks', gentlemanly forbearance in not joining the clamor against them, in the adverse hour, nor pushing his claims, when he had reason to believe that they were down; quite down at the heel. Jenks "hoped" he should never be found on the wrong or even doubtful side of humanity, gentlemanly courtesy, or Christian kindness; they shook hands and parted; the senior partner of the exploded firm requesting, and Jenks agreeing, to say every thing he could towards sustaining the honor of the house of P. & B., and recreating its now almost extinguished credit. Those who fought the bankrupt merchants most got the least, and because Jenks preserved an undisturbed serenity, when it was known that he was as deeply a loser, they supposed, as any one, they were staggered at his philosophy, or amused at his extreme good nature. This latter result seemed the most popular and accepted notion of Jenks' character, and proved the ground-work of his pecuniary destruction.

The firm of Perkins & Ball crept up again; Jenks had, on all occasions, spoken in the most favorable terms of the firm; he not only freely endorsed again for them, but stood their referee generally. In the meantime, Jenks' celebrity for good nature and open-heartedness had drawn around him a host of patrons and admirers. Jenks' name became a circulating medium for half his business acquaintances. If Brown was short in his cash account, five hundred or a thousand dollars —

"Just run over to Jenks'," he'd say to his clerk; "ask him to favor me with a check until the middle of the week." It was done.

"Terms – thirty days with good endorsed paper," was sufficient for the adventurous Smith to buy and depend on Jenks' autograph to secure the goods. When in funds, Bingle went where he chose; when a little short, Jenks had his patronage. Jenks kept but few memorandums of acts of kindness he daily committed; hence when the evil effects of them began to revolve upon him – if not mortified or ashamed of his "bargains," he at least was astounded at the results. Brown, whose due bills or memorandums Jenks held, to the amount of seven thousand dollars, accommodation loans, took an apoplectic, one warm summer's day, after taking a luxurious dinner. Jenks had hardly learned that Brown's affairs were pronounced in a state of deferred bankruptcy, when the first rumor reached him that Smith had bolted, after a heavy transaction in "woolens" – Jenks his principal endorser – Smith not leaving assets or assigns to the amount of one red farthing.

"By Jove!" poor Jenks muttered, as he tremulously seated himself in his back counting room – "that's shabby in Smith – very shabby."

The next morning's Gazette informed the community that Bingle had failed – liabilities over $200,000 – prospects barely giving hopes of ten per cent, all around; and even this hope, upon Jenks' investigation, proved a forlorn one; by a modus operandi peculiar to the heartless, self-devoted, they got all, Jenks and the few of his ilk, got nothing!

For the first time in his life, Jenks became pecuniarily moody. For the first time, in the course of his mercantile career, of some six years, the force of reflection convinced him, that he had not acted his part judiciously, however "well done" it might be, in point of honor and manliness.

The next day Jenks devoted to a scrutiny of his accounts in general with the business world. He found things a great deal "mixed up;" his balance-sheet exhibited large surplusages accumulated on the score of his leniency and good nature; by the credit of those with whom he held business relations. A council of war, or expediency, rather, —solus, convinced Jenks, he had either mistaken his business qualifications, or formed a very vague idea of the soul – manners and customs of the business world; and he broke up his council, a sadder if not a wiser man.

"By Jove, this is discouraging; I'll have to do a very disagreeable thing, very disagreeable thing: make an assignment!"

"Who'd thought John Jenks would ever come to that?" that individual muttered to himself, as he proceeded to his hotel. And ere he reached his plate, at the tea-table, a servant whispered that a gentleman with a message was out in the "office" of the hotel, anxious to see Mr. Jenks.

"Mr. Jenks – John Jenks, I believe, sir?" began the person, as poor Jenks, now on the tapis for more ill news, approached the person in waiting.

"Precisely, that's my name, sir," Jenks responded.

"Then," continued the stranger, "I've disagreeable business with you, Mr. Jenks; I hold your arrest!"

"Good God!" exclaimed Jenks; "my arrest? What for?"

"There's the writ, sir; you can read it."

"A writ? Why, God bless you, man, I don't owe a dollar in the world, but what I can liquidate in ten minutes!"

"Oh, it's not debt, sir; you may see by the writ it's felony!"

If the man had drawn and cocked a revolver at Jenks, the effect upon his nervous system could not have been more startling or powerful. But he recovered his self-possession, and learned with dismay, that he was arrested – yes, arrested as an accessory to a grand scheme of fraud and general villany, on the part of Smith, a conclusion arrived at, by those most interested, upon discovery that Jenks had pronounced Smith "good," and endorsed for him in sums total, enormously, far beyond Jenks' actual ability to make good!

It was in vain Jenks declared, and no man before ever dreamed of doubting his word, his entire ability to meet all liabilities of his own and others, for whom he kindly become responsible; for when the bulk of Smith's paper with Jenks' endorsement was thrust at him, he gave in; saw clearly that he was the victim of a heartless forger.

But his calmness, in the midst of his affliction, triumphed, and he rested comparatively easy in jail that night, awaiting the bright future of to-morrow, when his established character, and "troops of friends" should set all right. But, poor Jenks, he reckoned indeed without his host; to-morrow came, but not "a friend in need;" they saw, in their far-reaching wisdom, a sinking ship, and like sagacious rats, they deserted it!

"I always thought Jenks a very good-natured, or a very deep man," said one.

"I knew he was too generous to last long!" said another.

"I told him he was green to endorse as freely as he did," echoed a third.

"Good fellow," chimed a fourth – "but devilish imprudent."

"He knows what he's at!" cunningly retorted a fifth, and so the good but misguided Jenks was disposed of by his "troops of friends!"

But Perkins & Ball – they had got up again, were flourishing; they, Jenks felt satisfied, would not show the "white feather," and the thought came to him, in his prison, as merrily as the reverse of that fond hope made him sad and sorrowful, when at the close of day, his attorney informed him, that Perkins & Ball regretted his perplexing situation, but proffered him no aid or comfort. They said, sad experience had shown them, that there were no "bowels of compassion" in the world for the fallen; men must trust to fortune, God, and their own exertions, to defeat ill luck and rise from difficulties; they had done so; Mr. Jenks must not despair, but surmount his misfortunes with a stout heart and a clear conscience, and profit, as they had, by reverses!

"Profit!" said Jenks, in a bitter tone, "profit by reverses as they have!"

"Why, Powers," he continued to his counsel, "do you know that if I had been a tithe part as base and conscienceless as they are now, Perkins & Ball would be beggars, if not inmates of this prison! Yes, sir, my casting vote, of all the rest, would have done it. But no matter; I had hoped to find, in a community where I had been useful, generous and just, friends enough for all practical purposes, without carrying my business difficulties to the fireside of my parents and other relations. But that I must do now; if, if they fail me, then – I cave!"

Two days after that conference of the lawyer and the merchant, "honest John" learned, with sorrow, that his father was dead; estate involved, and his friends at home in no favorable mood in reference to what they heard of John Jenks and his "bad management" in the city.

John Jenks – heard no more – he "caved!" as he agreed to.

We pass over Jenks' Smithsonian difficulty, which a prudent lawyer and discerning jury brought out all right.

We come to 1850 – some fifteen or eighteen years after John Jenks "caved." The John Jenks of 183- had been ruined by his good nature, set adrift moneyless, in a manner, with even a spotted reputation to begin with; he "profited by his reverses," he was now a man of family – fifty, fat, and wealthy, and altogether the meanest and most selfish man you ever saw!

Jenks freely admits his originality is entirely – "used up!" The reader may affix the moral of my sketch – at leisure.

The Greatest Moral Engine

Say what you will, it's no use talking, poverty is more potent and powerful, as a moral engine, than all the "sermons and soda water," law, logic, and prison discipline, ever started. All a man wants, while he has a chance to be honest, and to get along smoothly, is a good situation and two dollars a day; give him five dollars a day, and he gets lazy and careless; while at ten, or a hundred a day, he is sure to cultivate beastly feeling, eat and sleep to stupefaction, become a roue, or a rotten politician. A poor man, in misery, applies to God for consolation, while a rich man applies to his banker, and tries on a "bender," or goes on a tour to Europe, and studies foreign folly and French license. Poverty is great; in a Christian community, or a thriving village, it is equal to "martial law," in suppressing moral rebellion and keeping down the "dander!" And how faithful, too, is poverty, says Dr. Litterage, for it sticks to a man after all his friends and the rest of mankind have deserted him!

The Story of Capt. Paul

I love to speak, I love to write of the mighty West. I have passed ten happy and partly pleasant years travelling over the immense tracts of land of the West and South. I have, during that time, garnered up endless themes for my pen. It was my custom, during my travels, to keep a "log," as the mariners have it, and at the close of the day I always noted the occurrences that transpired with me or others, when of interest, and opportunities were favorable to do so.

Several years ago I was stopping at Vevay, Indiana, a small village on the Ohio river, waiting for a steamboat to touch there and take me up to Louisville, Ky. It was in the fall of the year, water was very low, and but few boats running. Shortly after breakfast, I took my rifle and ammunition and started down along the river to amuse myself, and kill time by hunting. Game was scarce, and after strolling along until noon, I got tired and came out to the river to see if any boats were in sight, as well as take shelter from a heavy shower of rain that had come on. I sought an immense old tree, whose broad crown and thick foliage made my shelter as dry as though under a roof, and here I sat down, bending my eyes along the placid, quiet and noble river, until I was quite lost in silent reverie. The rain poured down, and presently I heard a footstep approaching from the woods behind, and at the same moment a rough, curly dog came smelling along towards me. The dog came up to within a few rods of me and stopped, took a grin at me and then disappeared again. But my further anxiety was soon relieved by the appearance of a tall, gaunt man, dressed in the usual costume of a western woodsman, jean trowsers, hunting shirt, old slouched felt hat, rifle, powder horn, bullet pouch, and sheath knife. He was an old man, face sallow and wrinkled, and hair quite a steelish hue.

"Mornin', stranger," said he; "rayther a wet day for game?"

I replied in the affirmative, and welcomed him to my shelter. Having taken a seat near me, on the fallen trunk of a small tree, the old man, half to himself and partly to me, sighed —

"Ah! yes, yes, our day is fast gwoin over; an entire new set of folks will soon people this country, and the old settler will be all gone, and no more thought of."

"I imagine," said I, interrupting his soliloquy, "that you are an old settler, and have noted vast, wonderful changes here in the Ohio Valley?"

"Wonderful; yes, yes, stranger, thar you're right; I have seen wonderful changes since I first squatted 'yer, thirty-five years ago. Every thing changes about one so, that I skearse know the old river any more. 'Yer they've brought their steamboats puffin', and blowin', and skeerin' off the game, fish, and alligators. 'Yer they've built thar towns and thar store houses, and thar nice farm houses, and keep up sich a clatter and noise among 'em all, that one fond of our old quiet times in the woods, goes nigh bein' distracted with these new matters and folks."

"Well," said I, "neighbor, you old woodsmen will have to do as the Indians have done, and as Daniel Boone did, when the advancing axe of civilization, and the mighty steam and steel arms of enterprise and improvement make the varmints leave their lairs, and the air heavy and clamorous with the gigantic efforts of industry, genius, and wealth, you must fall back. Our territories are boundless, and there are yet dense forests, woods, and wilds, where the Indian, lone hunter, and solitary beast, shall rove amid the wild grandeur of God's infinite space for a century yet to come."

"Ah, yes, yes, young man; I should have long since up stakes and rolled before this sweeping tide of new settlers, only I can't bar to leave this tract 'yer; no, stranger, I can't bar to do it."

"Doubtless," I replied; "one feels a strong love for old homes, a lingering desire to lay one's bones to their final resting place, near a spot and objects that life and familiarity made dear."

"Yes, yes, stranger, that's it, that's it. But look down thar – thar's what makes this spot dear to me – thar, do you see yon little hillock – yon little mound? Thar's what keeps old Tom Ward 'yer for life."

The old man seemed deeply affected, and sighed heavily, as he wiped the moisture from his eyes with the back of his hand. I gazed down towards the spot he had called my attention to, and there I beheld, indeed, something resembling a solitary and lonely grave; wild flowers bloomed around it, and a flat stone stood at the head, and a small stake at the foot.

"'Tisn't often one comes this way to ask the question, and the Lord knows, stranger, I'm always willing to tell the sad story of that lonely grave. Well, well, it's no use to grieve always, the red whelps have paid well for thar doins, and now, but few of 'em are spared to repent – the Lord forgive 'em all," to which I involuntarily echoed – "Amen!"

"Well, stranger, you see, about five-and-thirty years ago, I left Western Virginia to come down 'yer in the Ohio valley. I well remember the first glimpse I got of this stream; it war a big stream to me, and I gloried in the sight of it. Thar war but few settlements then upon its banks, and thar war none of your roarin', splashin' steamboats about; but I like the steamboats – thar grand creatures, and go it like high-mettled horses. Well, I war a young man then; me and my brother and our old mother joined in with a neighbor, built a family boat, put in our goods, and started off down the stream, towards the lower part thar of Kentucky.

"Captain Paul, our neighbor, war an old woodsman, though he war a young man; he had a wife and several fine, growin' children along with us, and our journey for many days war prosperous and pleasant. Capt. Paul's wife's sister war along with us, a fine young creature she war too. My brother and her I always carc'lated would make a match of it when we reached our journey's end; but poor Ben, God bless the boy, he little dreampt he'd be cut off so soon in the prime of life, and leave his bones 'yer to rot. I war young too, then, and little thought I should ever come to be this old, withered-up creature you see me now, stranger."