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Read Ebook: The Humors of Falconbridge A Collection of Humorous and Every Day Scenes by Falconbridge
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Ebook has 1964 lines and 139488 words, and 40 pages
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THE HUMORS OF FALCONBRIDGE.
If it ain't right, I'll make it all right in the Morning!
A keen, genteely dressed, gentlemanly man "put up" at Beltzhoover's Hotel, in Baltimore, one day some years ago, and after dining very sumptuously every day, drinking his Otard, Margieux and Heidsic, and smoking his "Tras," "Byrons," and "Cassadoras," until the landlord began to surmise the "bill" getting voluminous, he made the clerk foot it up and present it to our modern Don Caesar De Bazan, who, casting his eye over the long lines of perpendicularly arranged figures, discovered that--which in no wise alarmed him, however--he was in for a matter of a cool C!
"No doubt at all, sir," says the polite clerk,--"we seldom present a bill, sir, until the gentlemen are about to leave, sir; but when the bills are unusually large, sir--"
"O, no doubt of it, sir; it is very expensive to keep company, and entertain the government officers, at Washington, sir," the clerk replies.
"Very good, sir; that will answer, sir," says the clerk, about to bow himself out of the room.
"One moment, if you please, my dear fellow; that Marteux of yours is really superb. A friend dined here yesterday with me--he is a--a gentleman who imports a--a great deal of wine; he a--a--pronounces your Schreider an elegant article. I shall entertain some friends to-night, here, and do you see that we have sufficient of that 'Marteux' and 'Schreider' cooling for us; my friends are judges of a pure article, and a--a I wish them to have a--a good opinion of your house. Understand?"
"Ah, yes, sir; that'll be all right," says the clerk.
"Of course; if it ain't, I'll make it all right in the morning!" says the Don Caesar, as the official vanished.
"Well, Charles, did you present that gentleman's bill?" asks the host of the clerk, as they met at "the office."
"Yes, sir; he says it's all right, or he'll make it all right in the morning, sir," replies the clerk.
That evening a Captain Jones called on Don Caesar--a servant carried up the card--Captain Jones was requested to walk up. Lieutenant Smith, U. S. N., next called--"walk up." Dr. Brown called--"walk up." Col. Green, his card--"walk up;" and so on, until some six or eight distinguished persons were walked up to Don Caesar's private parlor; and pretty soon the silver necks were brought up, corks were popping, glasses were clinking, jests and laughter rose above the wine and cigars, and Don Caesar was putting his friends through in the most approved style!
"What's that?" says the Don; "speak loud, I've got a buzzing in my ears, and can't hear whispers."
"Mr. Tompkins, sir, the clerk of the house, sir," replies the servant, in a sharp key.
"That we do not question, sir," says the clerk, "but there are many persons in the adjoining rooms whom you'll disturb, sir; I speak for the credit of the house."
"Not at all, sir; I did not say that, sir," says the clerk.
Having delivered this order and exhortation, Don Caesar arose on his pins, and marshalling his party, after a general swap of hats all around, in which trade big heads got smallest hats, and small heads got largest hats, by aid of the staircase and the servants, they all got to the street, and lumbering into a large hack, they started off on a midnight airing, noisy and rip-roarious as so many sailors on a land cruise. The last words uttered by Don Caesar, there, as the coach drove off, were:
Don't you believe in 'em?
The Old Black Bull
"It appears to me," said the old gentleman, "that this is a very simple case--a very trifling thing to cause you so much vexation."
"I don't call it a trifling case, Mr. Bulkley," said another.
"No case at all," responded the third.
"It ain't, eh?" fiercely answered the first speaker.
"No, it ain't, sir!" quite as savagely replied the third.
"It's anything but a trifling case, anyhow," echoed number two, "to expect to raise the minister's salary and that new steeple, too, out of our small congregation."
"Gentlemen, if you please--" beseechingly interposed the sage.
"I haven't come here, Mr. Bulkley, to quarrel," said one.
"Who started this?" sarcastically answered Mr. Johnson.
"Not me, anyway," number three replies.
"You don't say I did, do you?" says number one.
"Gentlemen!--gentlemen!--"
"Mr. Bulkley, you see how it is; there's Johnson--"
"Yes, Mr. Bulkley," says Johnson, "and there's old Winkles, too, and here's Deacon Potter, also."
"So I say," murmured Mr. Winkles.
"Sir!" he shouted, "sir!"
"Brethren," said Mr. Bulkley, "if I am to counsel you in your difference, I must have no more of this unchristian-like bickering."
"I do not wish to bicker, sir," said Johnson.
"Well, well, never mind," said Mr. Bulkley; "you are all too excited now; go home again, and wait patiently; on Saturday evening next, I will have prepared and sent to you a written opinion of your case, with a full and free avowal of most wholesome advice for preserving your church from desolation and yourselves from despair." And the committee left, to await his issue.
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.
"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:
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.
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:
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