The Humors of Falconbridge

"My dear Caroline!" exclaimed B – , rushing into the rear door of his domestic establishment, to the no small surprise of Mrs. B., who gave a premature —

"Oh dear! how you frightened me, Fred! Got home?"

"Home? yes! don't you see I have. But, Carrie, didn't I earnestly beg of you to keep those doors – cellar doors – shut? fastened?"

"Why, how you talk! Bless me! Keep the cellar shut? Why, there's nothing in the cellar."

"Nothing in the cellar?" fairly howls B – .

"Nothing? Of course there is not," quietly responded the wife; "there is nothing in the cellar; day before yesterday, our drain and Mrs. A.'s drain got choked up; she went to the landlord about it; he sent some men, they examined the drain, and came back to-day with their tools and things, and went down the cellar."

"Down the cellar?" gasped B – , quite tragically.

"Down the cellar!" slowly repeated Mrs. B.

"Give me a light – quick, give me a light, Caroline!"

"Why, don't be a fool. I brought up all the things, the potatoes, the meat, the squashes."

"P-o-o-h! blow the meat and squashes! Give me a light!" and with a genuine melo-drama rush, B – seized the lamp from his wife's hand, and down the cellar stairs he went, four steps at a lick. In a moment was heard —

"O-o-o-h! I'm ruined!"

With a full-fledged scream, Mrs. B. dashed pell-mell down the stairs, to her husband. He had dropped the lamp – all was dark as a coal mine.

"Fred – Frederick! oh! where are you? What have you done?" cried his wife, in intense agony and doubt.

"Done? Oh! I'm done! yes, done now!" he heavily sighed.

"Done what? how? Tell me, Fred, are you hurt?"

"What on airth's the matter, thar? Are you committing murder on one another?" came a voice from above stairs.

"Is that you, Mrs. A.?" asked Mrs. B. to the last speaker.

"Yes, my dear; here's a dozen neighbors; don't get skeert. Is thare robbers in yer house? What on airth is going on?"

This brought B – to his proper reckoning. He ordered his wife to "go up," and he followed, and upon reaching the room, he found quite a gathering of the neighbors. He was as white as a white-washed wall, and the neighbors staring at him as though he was a wild Indian, or a chained mad dog. Importuned from all sides to unravel the mystery, B – informed them that he had merely gone down cellar to see what the masons, &c., had been doing – dropped his lamp – his wife screamed – and that was all about it! The wife said nothing, and the neighbors shook their incredulous heads, and went home; which, no sooner had they gone, than B – seized his hat and cut stick for the office of a cunning, far-seeing limb of the law, leaving Mrs. B. in a state of mental agitation better imagined than described. B – stated his case – he had buried six hundred dollars in a box under the lee of the cellar-wall, and gone to Boston on business, and as if no other time would suit, a parcel of drain-cleaners, and masons, and laborers, must come and go right there and then to dig – get the six hundred dollars and clear.

After a long chase, law and bother, B – recovered half his money – packed up and came to Boston. – There's a case for you! Beware of money!

Nursing a Legacy

Waiting for dead men's shoes is a slow and not very sure business; sometimes it pays and sometimes it don't. I know a genius who lost by it, and his case will bear repeating, for there is both morality and fun in it.

Lev Smith, a native of "the Eastern shore" of Maryland, and a resident of a small town in the lower part of Delaware, began life on a very limited capital, and because of a natural disposition indigenous to the climate and customs of his native place – general apathy and unmitigated patience peculiar to people raised on fish and Johnny-cake, amid the stunted pine swamps and sand-hills of that Lord-forsaken country – Lev never increased it. Lev had an uncle, an old bachelor, without "chick or child," and was reported to be pretty well off. Old man Gunter was proverbially mean, and as usual, heartily despised by one half of the people who knew him. He had a small estate, had lived long, and by his close-fisted manner of life, it was believed that Gunter had laid by a pretty considerable pile of the root of all evil, for something or somebody; and one day Lev Smith, the nephew, came to the conclusion that as the old man was getting quite shaky and must soon resign his interests in all worldly gear, he would volunteer to console the declining years of his dear old uncle, by his own pleasant company and encouragement, and the old man very gladly accepted the proposals of Lev, to cut wood, dig, scratch and putter around his worn out and dilapidated farm. Uncle Gunter had but two negroes; through starvation and long service he had worn them about out; he had little or no "stock" upon his farm, quite as scant an assortment of utensils, few fences, and in fact, to any actively disposed individual, the general appearance and state of affairs about old Gunter's place would have given the double-breasted blues. But Lev Smith had come to loaf and lounge, and not to display any very active or patriotic evolutions, so he was not so much disheartened by his uncle's dilapidated farm, as he was annoyed by the beggarly way the old man lived, and the assiduous desire he seemed to manifest for Lev to be stirring around, gathering chips, patching fences, cutting brush; from morn till night, he and the two superannuated cuffies; and the old man barely raising enough to keep soul and body of the party together.

At first, the job he had undertaken proved almost too much for Lev Smith's constitution, but the great object in view consoled him, and the more he saw of the old man's meanness, the more and more he took it for granted that his uncle had necessarily hoarded up treasure; but, after three years' drudgery, Lev's courage was on the point of breaking down; the only stay left seemed the fact that now he had served so long a time, so patiently and lovingly, and the old man apparently upon his very last legs – it seemed a ruthless waste of his golden dreams to give out, so he made up his mind to – wait a little longer. Another year rolled on; Uncle Gunter got indeed low, and the lower he got the more assiduous got nephew Smith, and even the neighbors wondered how a young man could stick on, and put up with such a miserly, mean, selfish and penurious old curmudgeon as old Joe Gunter. Gunter himself was apprized of the great indulgence and wonderful patience of his nephew, and not unfrequently said, in a groaning voice:

"Ah, my dear Levi, you're a good boy; I wish to the Lord it was in your poor, miserable, wretched old uncle's distressed power to – "

"Never mind, never mind, Uncle Joe," Lev would most deceitfully respond; "I ask nothing for myself; what I do, I do willingly!"

"I know, I know you do, poor boy, but your poor, old, miserable, wretched uncle don't deserve it."

"Don't mind that, dear uncle," says Lev. "It's my duty, and I'll do it."

"Good boy, good boy; your poor, old, miserable uncle will be grateful – we'll see."

"I know that – I feel sure he will, dear Uncle Joe – and that's enough, all I ask."

"And if he don't – poor, miserable old creature, – if he don't pay you, the Lord will, Levi!"

"And that will be all that's needed, Uncle Joe," says the humbugging nephew. And so they went, Lev not only waiting on the old man with the tender and faithful care of a good Samaritan, but out of his own slender resources ministering to the old man's especial comfort in many ways and matters which Uncle Joe would have seen him hanged and quartered before he would in a like manner done likewise. But the end came – the old fellow held on toughly; he never died until Lev's patience, hope and slender income were quite threadbare; so he at last went off the handle – Lev buried him and mourned the dispensation in true Kilkenny fashion.

Lev Smith now awaited the settlement of Uncle Gunter's affairs in grief and solicitude. Another party also awaited the upshot of the matter, with due solemnity and expectation, and that party was Polly Williams, Lev's "intended," and her poor and miserly dad and marm, who knew Lev Smith, as they said, was a lazy, lolloping sort of a feller, but sure to get all that his poor, miserable uncle was worth in the world, and therefore, with more craft and diligence, if possible, than Lev practised, the Williamses set Polly's cap for Lev, and who, in turn, was not unmindful of the fact that Williams "had something" too, as well as his two children, Polly and Peter. Things seemed indeed bright and propitious on all sides. The day came; Lev was on hand at Squire Cornelius's, to hear the will read, and the estate of the deceased settled.

As usual in such cases in the country, quite a number of the neighbors were on hand – old Williams, of course.

"He was a queer old mortal," began the Squire.

"But a good man," sobbed Lev Smith, drawing out his bandanna, and smothering his sharp nose in it. "A good man, 'Squire."

"God's his judge," responded the Squire, and a number of the neighbors shook their head and stroked their beards, as if to say amen.

"Joseph Gunter mout have been a good man and he mout not," continued the Squire; "some thinks he was not; I only say he was a queer old mortal, and here's his will. Last will and testament of Joseph Gunter, &c., &c.," continued the Squire.

"Poor, dear old man," sobbed Lev. "Poor dear old man!"

"Being without wife or children," continued the 'Squire.

"O, dear! poor, dear old man, how I shall miss him in this world of sorrow and sin," sobs Lev, while old Williams bit his skinny lips, and the neighbors again stroked their beards.

"To comfort my declining years – "

"Poor, dear old man, he was to be pitied; I did all I could do," groaned the disconsolate Lev, "but I didn't do half enough."

"Passing coldly and cheerless through the world – " continued the 'Squire.

"Yes, he did, poor old man; O, dear!" says Lev.

"Cared for by none, hated and shunned by all (Lev looked vacantly over his handkerchief, at the Squire), I have made up my mind (Lev all attention) that no mortal shall benefit by me; I have therefore mortgaged and sold (Lev's eyes spreading) everything I had of a dollar's value in the world, and buried the money in the earth where none but the devil himself can find it!"

There was a general snicker and stare – all eyes on Lev, his face as blank as a sham cartridge, while old Williams's countenance fell into a concatenation of grimaces and wrinkles – language fails to describe!

"But here's a codicil," says the 'Squire, re-adjusting his glasses. "Knowing my nephew, Levi Smith, expects something (Lev brightens up, old Williams grins!) – he has hung around me for a long time, expecting it (Lev's jaw falls), I do hereby freely forgive him his six years boarding and lodging, and, furthermore, make him a present of my two old negroes, Ben and Dinah."

"The – the – the – cussed old screw," bawls old Williams.

"The infernal, double and twisted, mean, contemptible, miserable old scoundrel!" cries poor Lev, foaming with virtuous indignation, and swinging his doubled up fists.

"And you – you – you cussed, do-less, good for nothing, hypocritical skunk, you," yells old Williams, shaking his bony fingers in poor Lev's face, the neighbors grinning from ear to ear, "to humbug me, my wife, my Polly, in this yer way. Now clear yourself – take them old niggers, don't leave 'em here for the crows to eat – clear yourself!"

Lev Smith sneaks off like a kill-sheep dog, leaving old Ben and Dinah to the tender mercies of a quite miserable and equally wretched neighborhood. Polly Williams didn't "take on" much about the matter, but in the course of a few weeks took another venture in love's lottery, and – was married. Poor Lev Smith returned to the scenes of his childhood, a wiser and a poorer man.

The Troubles of a Mover

"Mr. Flash in?"

"Mr. Flash? Don't know any such person, my son."

"Why, he lives here!" continued the boy.

"Guess not, my son; I live here."

"Well, this is the house, for I brought the things here."

"What things?" says our friend, Flannigan.

"Why, the door mat, the brooms, buckets and brushes," says little breeches.

Flannigan looks vacantly at his own door mat, for a minute, then says he —

"Come in my man, I'll see if any such articles have come here, for us."

The boy walks into the hall, amid the barricades of yet unplaced household effects – for Flannigan had just moved in – and Flannigan calls for Mrs. F. The lady appears and denies all knowledge of any such purchases, or reception of buckets, brooms, and little breeches clears out.

In the course of an hour, a violent jerk at the bell announces another customer. Flannigan being at work in the parlor, answers the call; he opens the door, and there stands "a greasy citizen."

"Goo' mornin'. Mr. Flash in?"

"Mr. Flash? I don't know him, sir."

"You don't?" says the "greasy citizen." "He lives here, got this bill agin him, thirty-four dollars, ten cents, per-visions."

"I live here, sir; my name's Flannigan, I don't know you, or owe you, of course!"

"Well, that's a pooty spot o' work, any how;" growls our greasy citizen, crumpling up his bill. "Where's Flash?"

"I can't possibly say," says Flannigan.

"You can't?"

"Certainly not."

"Don't know where he's gone to?" growls the butcher.

"No more than the man in the moon!"

"Well, he ain't goin' to dodge me, in no sich a way," says the butcher. "I'll find him, if it costs me a bullock, you may tell him so! – for me!" growls the butcher.

"Tell him yourself, sir; I've nothing to do with the fellow, don't know him from Adam, as I've already told you," says Flannigan, closing the door – the "greasy citizen" walking down the steps muttering thoughts that breathe and words that burn!

Flannigan had just elevated himself upon the top of the centre table, to hang up Mrs. F.'s portrait upon the parlor wall, when another ring was heard of the bell. He called to his little daughter to open the door and see what was wanted.

"Is your fadder in, ah?"

"Yes, sir, I'll call him," says the child, but before she could reach the parlor, a burly Dutch baker marches in.

"Goot mornin', I bro't de pills in."

"Pills?" says Flannigan.

"Yaw, for de prets," continues the baker; "nine tollars foof'ey cents. I vos heert you was movin', so I tink maybees you was run away."

"Mistake, sir, I don't owe you a cent; never bought bread of you!"

"Vaw's! Tonner a' blitzen! – don't owes me!"

"Not a cent!" says Flannigan, standing – hammer in hand, upon the top of the table.

"Vaw's! you goin' thrun away and sheet me, ah?"

"Look here, my friend, you are under a mistake. I've just moved in here, my name's Flannigan, you never saw me before, and of course I never dealt with you! – don't you see?"

"Tonner a' blitzen!" cries the enraged baker, "I see vat you vant, to sheet me out mine preet, you raskills – I go fetch the con-stabl's, de shudge, de sher'ffs, and I have mine mon-ney in mine hands!" and off rushes the enraged man of dough, upsetting the various small articles piled up on the bureau in the hall – by wanging to the door.

Poor Flannigan felt quite "put out;" he came very near dashing his hammer at the Dutchman's head, but hoping there was an end to the annoyances he kept at work, until another ring of the bell announced another call. The Irish girl went to the door; Flannigan listens —

"Mr. Flash in?"

"Yees!" says Biddy, supposing Flash and Flannigan was the same in Dutch. "Would yees come in, sir," and in comes the young man.

"Good morning, sir," quoth he; "I've called as you requested sir, with the bill of that china set, &c."

"Mistake, sir – I've bought no china set, lately," says Flannigan.

"Isn't your name Flash, sir!"

"No, sir, my name's Flannigan. I've just moved here."

"Indeed," says the clerk. "Well, sir, where has Flash gone to, do you know."

"Gone to be hanged! I trust, for I've been bothered all this morning by persons that scoundrel appears to owe. He moved out of here, day before yesterday; I took his unexpired term of the lease of this dwelling, having noticed it advertised, gave the fellow a bonus for his lease, and he cleared for California, I believe."

This concise statement appeared to satisfy the clerk that his "firm" was done, and the young man and his bill stepped out. Another ring, and Flannigan opens the door; two men wanted to see Mr. Flash; he had been buying some tin-ware of one, and the other he owed for putting up a fire range in the building, and which range and accoutrements poor Flannigan had bought for twenty-five dollars, cash down! These gentlemen felt very vindictive, of course, and hinted awful strong that Flannigan was privy to Flash's movements; and a great deal more, until Flannigan losing his patience, and then his temper, ordered the men to vamose! – they did, giving poor Flannigan a "good blessing" as they walked away!

The family was about to sit down to a "made-up dinner" in the back parlor, when the bell rang; the Irish girl answered the call, and returned with a bill of sundry groceries, handed in by a man at the door.

"Tell him Mr. Flash has gone – left – don't know him, and don't want to know him, or have any thing to do with him or his bill!"

The girl carried back the bill; presently Flannigan hears a muss in the hall, he gets up and goes out; there was Biddy and the grocer's man in a high dispute. Biddy – "true to her instinct," had made a bull of her message by telling the man her master didn't know him; go to the divil wid his bill! Flannigan managed to pacify the man, and give him to understand that Mr. Flash was gone to parts unknown, and – the grocer, in common with bakers, butchers, tinners and china dealers – were done!

But now came the tug of war; two "colored ladies" made their appearance, for a small bill of seven dollars, for washing and ironing the dickeys and fine linen of the Flashes.

"An' de fac am," says the one, "we's bound to hab de money, shuah!"

It did not seem to take when Flannigan informed his colored friends that they were surely done, as their debtor had "cut his lucky" and gone!

The darkies felt inclined to be sassy, and Flannigan closed the door, ordering them to create a vacancy by clearing out, and just as he closed the door, ring goes the bell!

"Be gor," says a brawny "adopted citizen," planting his brogan upon the sill, as Flannigan opened the door – "I've come wid me coz-zin to git her wages, ye's owin' her!"

"Me? Owe you?" cries poor Flannigan.

"Igh!" says Paddy, trying to push his way into the hall.

"Stand back, you scoundrel!" cries Flannigan.

"Scoun-thril!" roars the outraged "adopted citizen."

"Stand back, you infernal ruffian!" exclaims Flannigan, as Paddy makes a rush to grab him.

"Give me me coz-zin's wages, ye – ye – " but here his oration drew towards a close, for Flannigan, no longer able to recognise virtue in forbearance, opened the door and planting his own huge fist between the ogle-factories of Paddy, knocked him as stiff as a bull beef! Falling, Paddy carried away his red-faced burly coz-zin, and the twain tumbling upon the two negro women who were still at the bottom of the steps, dilating, to any number of lookers-on, upon the rascality of poor Flannigan in gouging them out of their washing bill, down went the white spirits and black, all in a lump.

Here was a row! A mob gathered; "the people in that house" were denounced in all manner of ways, the negroes screamed, the Irish roared, the Dutch baker came up with a police-man to arrest Flannigan for stealing his bread! And soon the butcher arrived with another officer to seize the goods of Flash, supposed to be in the house – ready to be taken away!

Such a double and twisted uproar in Dutch, Irish, Ethiopian and natural Yankee, was terrific!

Mrs. F. fainted, the children screamed, and poor Flannigan was carried to the police office to answer half a cord of "charges," and reached home near sundown, quite exhausted, and his wallet bled for "costs," fines, &c., some $20. Poor Flannigan moved again; the house had such a "bad name," he couldn't stay in it.

The Question Settled

"Doctor" Gumbo, who "does business" somewhere along shore, met "Prof." White, – a gemman, whose complexion is four shades darker than the famed ace of spades, – a few evenings since, in front of the Blade office, and after the usual formalities of greeting, says the doctor —

"What you tink, sah, oh dat Lobes question, what dey's makin' sich a debbil ob a talk about in de papers?"

"Well," dignifiedly answered the professor of polish-on boots, "it's my 'ticular opinion, sah, dat dat Lopes got into de wrong pew, brudder Gumbo, when he went down to Cuber for his healf!"

"Pshaw! sah, I'se talkin' about de gwynna (guano) question, I is."

"Well, doctor," said the professor, "I'se not posted up on de goanna question, no how; but, when you comes to de Cuber, or de best mode ob applyin' de principle ob liquid blackin' to de rale fuss-rate calfskin, I'se dar!"

"O! oh!" grunts Gumbo; "professor, you'se great on de natural principles ob de chemical skyence, I see; but lord honey, I doos pity your ignorance on jography questions. So, take care ob yourself, ole nigger – yaw! yaw!" and they parted with the formality of two Websters, and half a dozen common-sized dignitaries of the nation thrown in.

How it's Done at the Astor House

People often wonder how a man can manage to drink up his salary in liquor, provided it is sufficient to buy a gallon of the very best ardent every day in the year. How a fortune can be drank up, or drank down, by the possessor, is still a greater poser to the unsophisticated. Now, to be sure, a man who confines himself, in his potations, to fourpenny drinks of small beer, Columbian whiskey, or even that detestable stuff, by courtesy or custom called French brandy, – which, in fact, is generally aquafortis, corrosive sublimate, cochineal, logwood, and whiskey, – and don't happen to know too many drouthy cronies, may make a very long lane of it; but it's the easiest thing in the world to swallow a snug salary, income, mortgages, live stock, and real estate, when you know how it's done.

Managing a theatre, publishing a newspaper, or keeping trained dogs or trotting horses, don't hardly begin to phlebotomize purse and reputation, like drinking.

"Doctor," said a gay Southern blood, to a famed "tooth doctor," "look into my mouth."

"I can't see any thing there, sir," says the tooth puller.

"Can't? Well, that's deuced strange. Why, sir, look again; you see nothing!"

"Nothing, sir!"

"Why, sir," says the young planter, "it's most astonishing, for I've just finished swallowing —three hundred negroes and two cotton plantations!"

Four young bucks met, some years ago, in a fashionable drinking saloon in Cincinnati. It was one of the most elegant drinking establishments in that part of the country. The young chaps belonged over in Kentucky – daddies rich, and they didn't care a snap! says they, let's have a spree! The "sham" came in, and they went at it; giving that a fair trial, they took a turn at sherry, hock, and a sample of all the most expensive stuffs the proprietors had on hand. Getting fuddled, they got uproarious; they kicked over the tables and knocked down the waiters. The landlord, not exactly appreciating that sort of "going on," remonstrated, and was met by an array of pistols and knives. Mad and furious, the young chaps made a general onslaught on the people present, who "dug out" very quick, leaving the bacchanalians to their glory; whereupon, they fell to and fired their pistols into the mirrors, paintings, chandeliers, &c. Of course the watchmen came in, about the time the young gentlemen finished their youthful indiscretions, and after the usual battering and banging of the now almost inanimate bodies of the quartette, landed them in the calaboose. Next day they settled their bills, and it cost them about $2200! It was rather an expensive lesson, but it's altogether probable that they haven't forgotten a letter of it yet.