The Humors of Falconbridge

"Well, there," said one of Bunker's friends, "I'll bet Joe's sick; persimmons have been prescribed for his cure, and the sooner we send the persimmons the better!"

"Persimmons! Now I come to think of it," says the man who had a faint idea of what persimmons were, "they make beer, first-rate beer of persimmons, in the South, and it's my opinion, that Joe Bunker is going into persimmon beer business; as you say, he may be sick – persimmon beer may be the California cure-all; in either case, let us forward the persimmons without delay!"

Now persimmons never ripen until touched pretty smartly with Jack Frost. This was in September; persimmons were mostly full grown, but not ripe. A large keg of them was ordered from Jersey, and as fast as Adams & Co.'s great Express to San Francisco could take them out, the persimmons went!

Counsellor Bunker, relying upon his friends to forward without delay the tools and remedial agents to make his fortune in the pill business, went to work, got him an office, changed his name, and added an M. D. to it, had a sign painted, advertised his shop, and informed the public that on such a time he would open, and guarantee to cure all ills, from lumbago to liver complaint, from toothache to lock-jaw, spring fever to yaller janders, and in his enthusiasm, he sat down with a ream of paper, to count up the profits, and calculate the time it would take to get his pile of gold dust and start for home.

The day arrived that Doctor Phlebotonizem was to open, and he found customers began to call, and sure enough, in comes a large keg, direct through from the States, to his address; the freight bill on it was pretty considerable, but Joe out and paid it, rejoicing to think that now he was all right, and that if the proprietors of gold dust and the lumbago, or any of the various ills set forth in his catalogue of human woes, had spare change, he would soon find them out. He closed his door, opened his cask —

"What in the name of everlasting sin and misery is this?" was the first burst, upon feeling the fine saw dust, and seeing, nicely packed, the green and purple, round and glossy – he couldn't tell what.

"Pills? No, good gracious, they can't be pills– smell queer – some mistake – can't be any mistake – my name on the cask – (tastes one of the 'article') – O! by thunder! (tastes again) – I'm blasted, they (tastes again) are, by Jove, persimmons! Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ho! ho! he! he! ha! ha! ha!"

And the ex-counsellor of modern law roared until he grew livid in the face.

"I see – ha! ha! I see; they have misunderstood every line I wrote them, except the last, and that – ha! ha! ha! – for my direction to send out my stuff per Simmons, they send me persimmons! Ha! ha! ha! ho! ho!"

But, after enjoying the fun of the matter, ex-counsellor Bunker discovered the thing was nothing to laugh at; patients were at the door – if he did not soon prescribe for their cases, his now numerous creditors would prescribe for him! What was to be done? Very dull and prosy people often become enterprising and imaginative, to a wonderful degree, when put to their trumps. This philosophical fact applied to ex-counsellor Bunker's case exactly. He was there to better his fortune, and he felt bound to do it, persimmons or no persimmons. It occurred to him, as those infernal persimmons had cost him something, they ought to bring in something. By the aid of starch and sugar, Doctor Phlebotonizem converted some hundreds of the smallest persimmons into pills– sugar-coated pills – warranted to cure about all the ills flesh was heir to, at $2 each dose. One generally constituted a dose for a full-grown person, and as the patient left with a countenance much "puckered up," and rarely returned, the pseudo M. D. concluded there was virtue in persimmon pills, and so, after disposing of his stock to first-rate advantage, the doctor paid off his bills; tired of the pill trade, he vamosed the ranche with about funds enough to reach home, and explain to his friends the difference between per Simmons and persimmons!

Mysteries and Miseries of the Life of a City Editor

A great deal has been written, to show that the literary business is a very disagreeable business; and that branch of it coming under the "Editorial" head is about as comfortable as the bed of Procustes would be to an invalid. It may doubtless look and sound well, to see one's name in print, going the rounds, especially at the head of the editorial columns, from ten to fifty thousand eyes and tongues scanning and pronouncing it every day, or week – hundreds and thousands of the fair sex wondering whether he is a young or an old man, a married man or a bachelor; while the pious and devout are contemplating the serious of his emanations, and conjecturing whether he be a Methodist, Puseyite, or Catholic, a Presbyterian, Unitarian or Baptist; and the politicians scanning his views, to discover whether he leans toward the Locofocos, Free-Soilers, or Whigs– all being necessarily much mystified, inasmuch as the neutral writer, or editor, is obliged to study, and most vigilantly to act, the part of a cunning diplomatist – stroke every body's hair with the grain!

The Tribulations of Incivility

"A gentleman by the name of Collins stopping with you?"

"Collins?" was the response.

"Yes, Collins, or Collings, I ain't sure which," said the hardy-looking, bronzed seaman, to the gaily-dressed, flippant-mannered, be-whiskered man of vast importance, presiding over the affairs of one of our "first-class hotels."

"Very indefinite inquiry, then," said the hotel manager.

"Well, I brought this small package from Bremen for a gentleman who came out passenger with us some time ago; he left it in Bremen – wanted me to fetch it out when the ship returned – here it is."

"What do you want to leave it here for? We know nothing about the man, sir."

"You don't? Well, you ought to, for the gentleman put up here, and told me he'd be around when we got into port again. He was a deuced clever fellow, and you ought to have kept the reckoning of such a man," said the seaman.

"Ha, ha! we keep so many clever fellows," said he of the hotel, "that they are no novelties, sir."

"I wonder then," said the seaman, "you do not imitate some of them, for there's no danger of the world's getting crowded with a crew of good men."

"If you have any business with us we shall attend to it, sir, but we want none of your impertinence!"

"O, you don't? Well, Mister, I've business aboard of your craft; if you're the commodore, I'd like you to see that my friend Collins is piped up, or that this package be stowed away where he could come afoul of it. His name is Collins; here it is in black and white, on the parcel, and here's where I was to drop it."

One of the "understrappers" overhearing the dispute, whispered his dignified superior that Mr. Collins, an English gentleman, late from Bremen, was in the house, whereupon the dignified empressario, turning to the self-possessed man of the sea, said —

"Ah, well, leave the parcel, leave the parcel; we suppose it's correct."

"There it is," said the seaman; "commodore, you see that the gentleman gets it; and I say," says the sailor, pushing back his hat and giving his breeches a regular sailor twitch, "I wish you'd please to say to the gentleman, Mr. Collins, you know, that Mr. Brace, first officer of the Triton, would like to see him aboard, any time he's at leisure."

But in the multiplicity of greater affairs, the hotel gentleman hardly attempted to listen or attend to the sailor's message, and Mr. Brace, first officer of the Triton, bore away, muttering to himself —

"These land-crabs mighty apt to put on airs. I'd like to have that powder monkey in my watch about a week – I'd have him down by the lifts and braces!"

Let us suppose it to be in the glorious month of October, when the myriads of travellers by land and ocean are wending their way from the chilly north towards the sunny south, when the invalid seeks the tropics in pursuit of his health, and the speculative man of business returns with his "invoices," to his shop, or factory, where profit leads the way.

We are on board ship – the Triton ploughing the deep blue waters of the ocean track from Sandy Hook to New Orleans; for October, the weather is rather unruly, damp, and boisterous. We perceive a number of passengers on board, and by near guess of our memory, we see a person or two we have seen before. Our be-whiskered friend of the "first-class hotel," is there; he does not look so self-possessed and pompous on board the heaving and tossing ship as he did behind his marble slab in "the office." "The sea, the sea!" as the song says, has quite taken the starch out of our stiff friend, who is not enjoying a first-rate time. And from an overheard conversation between two hardy, noble specimens of men that are men – two officers of the stoutly-timbered ship, the comfort of the be-whiskered gentleman is in danger of a commutation.

"Do you know him, Mr. Brace?"

"Yes, I know him; I knew him as soon as I got the cut of his jib coming aboard. Now, says I, my larky, you and I've got to travel together, and we'll settle a little odd reckoning, if you please, or if you don't please, afore we see the Balize. You see, that fellow keeps a crack hotel in York; I goes in there to deliver a package for a deuced good fellow as ever trod deck, and this powder monkey, loblolly-looking swab, puts on his airs, sticks up his nose, and hardly condescends to exchange signals with me. Ha! ha! I've met these galore cocks before; I can take the tail feathers out of 'em!" says Mr. Brace, who is the same hardy, frank and free fellow, with whom the reader has already formed something of a brief acquaintance. The person to whom Brace was addressing himself was the second officer of the merchantman, and it was settled that whatever nautical knowledge and skill could do to make things uneasy for Mr. Lollypops, the empressario of the "first-class hotel," was to be done, by mutual management of the two salt-water jokers.

"It appears to me, that a – bless me, sir, a – how this ship rolls!" said Lollypops, coming upon deck, and addressing Mr. Brace; "I – a never saw a ship roll so."

"Heavy sea on, sir," said Brace; "nothing to what we'll catch before a week's out."

"Bad coast, I believe, at this time o' year?" said Lollypops, balancing himself on first one leg and then the other.

"Worst coast in the world, sir; I'd rather go to Calcutta any time than go to Orleans; more vessels lost on the coast than are lost anywhere else on the four seas."

"You don't say so!" said Lollypops.

"Fact, sir," said Brace, who occasionally kept exchanging private and mysterious signals with the second officer, who held the wheel.

"Let her up a point, Mr. Brown, let her up!" Mr. Brown did let her up, and the way the Triton took head down and heels up and a roll to windward, did not speak so well for the nautical menage of the officers as it did for the quiet deviltry of the salt-water Joe Millers. The avalanche of brine inundated the decks, making the sailors look quite asquirt, and driving Mr. Lollypops, an ancient voyager or two, and sundry other travelling gentry – very suddenly into the cabin. The next day the same performance followed; the appearance of Lollypops on deck was a signal for Brace or Brown, to go in, get up a double roll on the ship, an imaginary gale was discussed, wrecks and reefs, dangerous points and dreadful currents were descanted upon, until Mr. Lollypops' health, at the end of the first week, was no better fast; in fact, he was getting sick of the voyage, while others around grew fat upon it. A fine morning induced the invalid to light his regalia and walk the decks; immediately Mr. Brace, or Brown, gave orders to wash down the decks. Mr. Lollypops went aloft, ergo, as far as the main top; immediately the first officer had the men "going about," heaving here and letting go there; in short, so endangering the hat and underpinning of the be-whiskered landlord of the "first-class hotel" that he was fain to crawl down, take the wet decks, tip-toe, and crawl into the cabin, damp as a dishcloth, and utterly disgusted with what he had seen of the sea! Accidentally, one afternoon, a tar pot fell from aloft; somehow or other, the careless sailor who held it, or should have held it – "let go all" just when Mr. Lollypops was in the immediate neighborhood; the result was that he had a splendid dressing-gown and other equipments – ruined eternally! Going into the cabin, Lollypops inquires for the Captain —

"Sir!" says he, "I am mad, Sir, very mad, Sir; yes, I am, Sir; look at me, only look at me! In rough weather we do not expect pleasant times at sea, but, Sir, ever since I have been on board, Sir, your infernal officers, Sir, have thrown this ship into all manner of unpleasant situations, kept the decks wet, rattled chains over my berth, wang-banged the rigging around, and finally, by thunder, I'm covered all over with villanous soap fat and tar! Now, Sir, this is not all the result of accident – it's premeditated rascality!"

"Sir" – says the bully mate, coming forward, at this crisis, "my name's Mr. Brace; when I was aboard your craft, in New York, you rather put on airs, and I said if you and I ever got to sea together – we'd have a blow out. Now we're about even; if you're a mind we'll call the matter square – "

"Yes, yes, for heaven's sake, let us have no more of this!" says Lollypops.

"We'll have a bottle together, and wish for a clean run to Orleans!" continued officer Brace.

Lollypops agreed; he not only stood the wine, but got over his anger, vowed to look deeper into character, and never again rebuff honest manliness, though hid under the coarse costume of a son of Neptune! A hearty laugh closed the scene, and fair weather and a fine termination attended the voyage of the Triton to New Orleans; for a finer, drier craft never danced over the ocean wave, than that good ship, under rational management.

The Broomstick Marriage

"Marry in haste and repent at leisure," is a time-honored idea, and calls to mind a matrimonial circumstance which, according to pretty lively authority, once came about in the glorious Empire State. A certain Captain of a Lake Erie steamer, who was blessed with an elegant temperament for fun, fashion, and the feminines, was "laid up," over winter, near his childhood's home in Genesee county. Having nearly exhausted his private stock of jokes, and gone the entire rounds of life and liveliness of the season, he bethought him how he should create a little stir, and have his joke at the expense of a young Doctor, who had recently "located" in the neighborhood, and by his rather taking person and manners, cut something of a swath in the community, and especially amongst the calico!

The profession of young Esculapius gave him an access to private society that ordinary circumstances did not vouch to most men. Among the many families with which Dr. Mutandis had formed an acquaintance was that of old Capt. Figgles. The Captain was a queer old mortal, who in his hale old days had quit life on the ocean wave for the quietude of agricultural comfort. The Captain was a blustering salt, whimsical, but generous and social, as old sailors most generally are. He was supposed to be in easy circumstances, but how easy, very few knew.

Capt. Figgles's family consisted of himself, three daughters, one married and "settled," the other two at home; an ancient colored woman, who had served in the Captain's family, – ship and shore – a lifetime. Dinah and old Sam, her husband, with two or three farm-laborers, constituted the Captain's household. Betsy, the youngest daughter, the old man's favorite, had been christened Elizabeth, but that not being warm enough for Capt. Figgles's idea of attachment, he ever called his daughter, Betsy, and so she was called by almost everybody at all familiar with the family. Betsy Figgles was not a very poetical subject, by name or size. She was a fine, bouncing young woman of four-and-twenty; she was dutiful and bountiful, if not beautiful. She was useful, and even ornamental in her old father's eyes, and, as he was wont to say, in his never-to-be-forgotten salt-water linguæ—

"Betsy was a craft, she was; a square-bilt, trim, well-ballasted craft, fore and aft; none of your sky-scraping, taut, Baltimore clipper, fair-weather, no-tonnage jigamarees! Betsy is a woman; her mother was just like her when I fell in with her, and it wasn't long afore I chartered her for a life's voyage. And the man who lets such a woman slip her cable and stand off soundings, for 'Cowes and a market,' when he's got a chance to fill out her papers and take command, is not a man, but a mouse, or a long-tailed Jamaica rat!"

Between Capt. Tiller, our Lake boatman, and Capt. Figgles, there was an intimacy of some years' standing, but the old Captain and the young Captain didn't exactly "hitch horses" – whether it was because Capt. T. came under the old man's idea of "a Jamaica rat," or because he looked upon inland sailors as greenhorns, deponent saith not.

Dr. Mutandis and Capt. Figgles were only upon so-so sort of business sociality, though both the junior Captain and the Doctor were intimate enough with both the Miss Figgleses. Capt. Tiller, as we intimated, was about to leave for coming duties on the Lake, and being so full of old Nick, it was indispensable that he must play off a practical joke, or have some fun with somebody, as a sort of a yarn for the season, on his boat.

The Figgleses announced a grand quilting scrape; the Doctor and Captain were among the invited guests, of course, and for some hours the assembled party had indeed as grand a good time generally as usually falls to the lot of a country community. Old black Ebenezer – but whose name had also been cut down for convenience sake to Sam, by the old Captain – did the orchestral duties upon his fiddle, which, aided by a youngster on the triangle and another on the tambourine, formed quite "a full band" for the occasion, and dancing was done up in style!

As a sort of "change of scene" or divertisement in the programme, somebody proposed games of this and games of that, and while old Capt. Figgles was as busy as "a flea in a tar bucket" – to use the old gentleman's simile – fulminating and fabricating a rousing bowl of egg flip for the entire party, Capt. Tiller and Dr. Mutandis were sort of paired off with a party of eight, in which were the two Miss Figgleses, to get up their own game.

"Good!" says Capt. Tiller, "pair off with Miss Betsy, Doctor, and I'll pair off with Miss Sally (the older daughter of Capt. F.), and now what say you? Let's make up a wedding-party —let's jump the broomstick!"

"Agreed!" cries the Doctor. "Who'll be the parson?"

"I'll be parson," says Capt. T.

"Well, get your book."

"Here it is!" cries another, poking a specimen of current Scripture into the pseudo parson's hands.

"Miss Betsy and Dr. Mutandis, stand up," says Capt. Tiller, assuming quite the air and grace of the parson.

Bridesmaids, grooms, &c., were soon arranged in due order, and the interesting ceremony of joining hands and hearts in one happy bond of mutual and indissoluble (slightly, sometimes!) love and obedience was progressing.

"Cap'n Figgles, you're wanted," says one, interrupting the old man, now busy concocting his grog for all hands.

"Go to blazes, you son of a sea cook!" cries the old gentleman; "haven't you common decency to see when a man's engaged in a calculation he oughtn't to be disturbed, eh?"

"But Betsy's going to be married!" insists the disturber, who, in fact, was half-seas over in infatuation with Miss Betsy, and had had a slight inkling of a fact that by the law of the State anybody could marry a couple, and the marriage would be as obligatory upon the parties as though performed by the identical legal authorities to whom young folks "in a bad way" are in the habit of appealing for relief.

"Let 'em heave ahead, you marine!" cries Capt. Figgles.

"Are you really willing to allow it?" continues the swain.

"Me willing? It's Betsy's affair; let her keep the lookout," said the old gent.

"But don't you know, Cap'n – "

"No! nor I don't care, you swab!" cries the excited Captain. "Bear away out of here," he continued, beginning to get down the glasses from the corner-cupboard shelves, "unless – but stop! hold on! here, take this waiter, Jones, and bear a hand with the grog, unless you want to stand by, and see the ship's company go down by the lifts and braces, dry as powder-monkeys! There; now pipe all hands – ship aho-o-o-oy!" bawls the old Captain; "bear up, the whole fleet! Now splice the main-brace! Don't nobody stand back, like loblolly boys at a funeral – come up and try Capt. Figgles's grog!"

And up they came, the entire crew, old Ebenezer to the le'ard, sweating like an ox, and laying off for the piping bowl he knew he was "in for" from the hands of his indulgent old master.

In the mean time, the marriage ceremony had had its hour, and the bride and bridegroom were "skylarking" with the rest of the company as happily together as turtle-doves in a clover-patch. The evening's entertainment wound up with an old-fashioned dance, and the quilting ended. Dr. Mutandis lived some five miles distant, and having a call to make the next morning near Capt. Figgles's farm, Dr. M. concluded to stop with the Captain. As Capt. Tiller was leaving, he took occasion to whisper into the ear of his medical friend —

"I wish you much joy, my fine fellow; you're married, if you did but know it – fast as a church! Good time to you and Betsy!"

"The devil!" says the Doctor, musingly; "it strikes me, since I come to think it over, that the laws of this State do privilege anybody to marry a couple! By thunder! it would be a fine spot of work for me if I was held to the ceremony by Miss Figgles!"

But the Doctor kept quiet, and next morning, after breakfast, he departed upon his business. He had no sooner entered the house of his patient, than he was wished much joy and congratulated upon the fatness and jolly good nature of his bride!

"But," says the Doctor, "you're mistaken in this affair. It's all a hoax – a mere bit of fun!"

"Ha! ha!" laughed his patient, "fun? – you call getting married fun?"

"Yes," said the Doctor; "we were down at Capt. Figgles's; there was a quilting and sort of a frolic going on – "

"Yes, we heard of it."

"And, in fun, to keep up the sports of the evening, Capt. Tiller proposed to marry some of us. So Miss Figgles and I stood up, and Captain Tiller acted parson, and we had some sport."

"Well," says the farmer (proprietor of the house), "Capt. Tiller has got you into a tight place, Doctor; he's been around, laughing at the trick he's played you, as perhaps you were not aware of the fact that by the law you are now just as legally and surely married as though the knot was tied by five dozen parsons or magistrates!"

"I'll shoot Capt. Tiller, by Heavens!" cries the enraged Doctor. "He's a scoundrel! I'll crop his ears but I'll have satisfaction!"

"Pooh!" says the farmer, "if Betsy Figgles does not object, and her father is willing and satisfied with the match as it is, I don't see, Doctor, that you need mind the matter."

"I'll be revenged!" cries the Doctor.

"You were never previously married, were you?" says the farmer.

"No, sir," replied the Doctor.

"Engaged to any lady?" continued the interrogator.

"No, sir; I am too poor, too busy to think of such a folly as increasing my responsibilities to society!"

"Then, sir," said the farmer, "allow me to congratulate you upon this very fortunate event, rather than a disagreeable joke, for Capt. Figgles is worth nearly a quarter of a million of dollars, sir; and Miss Betsy is no gaudy butterfly, but, sir, she's an excellent girl, whom you may be proud of as your wife."

"'Squire," says the Doctor, "jump in with me, and go back to the Captain's and assist me to back out, beg the pardon of Miss Figgles and her father, and terminate this unpleasant farce."