The Humors of Falconbridge

Mixing Meanings – Mangling English

There is an individual in Quincy Market, "doing business," who is down on customers who don't speak proper.

"What's eggs, this morning?" says a customer.

"Eggs, of course," says the dealer.

"I mean – how do they go?"

"Go? – where?"

"Sho – !" says the customer, getting up his fury, "what for eggs?"

"Money, money, sir! or good endorsed credit!" says the dealer.

"Don't you understand the English language, sir?" says the customer.

"Not as you mix it and mangle it; I don't!" responded the egg merchant.

"What – is – the – price – per – dozen – for – your – eggs?"

"Ah! now you talk," says the dealer. "Sixteen cents per dozen, is the price, sir!" They traded!

Waking up the Wrong Passenger

In "comparing notes" with a travelled friend, I glean from his stock of information, gathered South-west, a few incidents in the life of a somewhat extensively famed Boston panoramic artist – one of which incidents, at least, is worth rehearsing. Some years ago, the South-west was beset by an organized coalition of desperadoes, whose daring outrages kept travellers and the dwellers in the Mississippi valley in continual fear and anxiety. "Running niggers" was one of the most popular and profitable branches of the business pursuits of these gentlemen freebooters, and, next to horse-stealing, was the most practised.

At length, the citizens "measured swords" with the freebooters, or land pirates, more properly; forming themselves into committees, the citizens opened Court and practised Judge Lynch's code upon a multitude of just occasions. At the time of which we write, Mill's Point, on the Mississippi, was no great shakes of a town, but a spot where a very considerable amount of whiskey was drank, and a corresponding quantity of crime and desperate doings were enacted; indeed, some of the worst scenes in Southern Kentucky's tragic dramas were performed there. It so fell out, that some of the land pirates had been actively engaged in levying upon the negroes and mules around Mill's Point, and the protective committee were on the alert to capture and administer the law upon these fellows. It was discovered, one evening, as the shades of a black and rather tempestuous night were closing upon the mighty "father of waters" and his ancient banks, that a mysterious voyageur, or sort of piratical vidette, was seen in his light canoe, hugging the shore, either for shelter or some insidious purpose.

The canoe and its navigator were diligently watched; but the coming storm and darkness soon closed observation, and the parties noticing the transaction hurried forward to the Point, and announced one or more of the land pirates in the neighborhood! Of course, the town – of some four houses, six "groceries," a store and blacksmithery – was aroused, indignant! Impatient for a victim, the posse comitatus "fired up," armed to the teeth with pistol, bludgeon, blunderbuss, gun, bowie-knife, and – whiskey, started up the river to reconnoitre and intercept the pirate and his crew.

Each nook and corner along shore, for some three miles, was carefully – as much so as the darkness would admit – scoured. The Storm-King rode by, the stars again twinkled in the azure-arched heavens, and soon, too, the bright silver moon beamed forth, and suddenly one of the vigilant committee espies the land-pirate and his canoe noiselessly floating down the rapid stream! No time was to be lost; the committee man, rather pleased with the fact of his being the first to make the discovery, apprised a comrade, and the two hurried back to the Point, to get a canoe and start out to capture the enemy. The canoe was obtained, three courageous men, armed to the teeth, as the saying goes, paddled off, and indeed they had not far to paddle, for right ahead they saw the mysterious canoe of the enemy! Where was the pirate? Asleep! Lying down in his frail vessel; either asleep, or "playing possum." At all events, the Mills-Pointers gave the enemy but a brief period to sleep or act; for, dashing alongside, a brawny arm seized the victim in the strange canoe by the breast and throat, with such a rush and fierceness that both canoes were upon the apex of "swamping."

"Don't move! Don't budge an inch, or you're a case for eels, you thief!"

"Make catfish bait of him at once!" yelled the second.

"Don't move," cried the third, "don't move, you possum, or you're giblets, instanter!"

But these injunctions scarcely seemed necessary, for, even had the captive been so inclined, he neither possessed the power nor opportunity to move a limb.

"Haul him out," cried one.

"Yes, lug him into our boat," said another; "so now, you skunk, lay still; don't open your trap, or I'll brain you on sight!"

Having transferred the body of the captive from his "own canoe" to theirs, the Mills-Pointers made fast the stranger's dug-out, and then paddled for the landing. The pirate was duly hauled ashore, or on to the wharf-boat, and left under guard of one of the captors – a dreadful ugly-looking customer, a cross between a whiskey-cask, bowie-knife, and a Seminole Indian or bull-dog, and armed equal to an arsenal – while the other two went up to the nearest "grocery," reported the capture, took a drink, and sent out word for Court to meet. The poor victim was deposited on his back across some barrels, with his hands tied behind him. Recovering his scattered senses, the pirate "waked up."

"Look here, my virtuous friend," said he to his body-guard, who sat on an opposite barrel, with a heavy pistol in his hand, "what's all this about?"

"Shet up!" responded the guard; "shet up your gourd. You'll know what's up, pooty soon, you ugly cuss, you!"

"Well, that's explicit, anyhow!" coolly continued the captive. "But all I want to know, is – am I to be robbed, killed off, or only initiated into the mysteries of your craft?"

"Shet up, you piratin' cuss, you; shet up, or I'll give you a settler!" was the reply.

"Well, really, you are accommodating," cavalierly replied the but little daunted captive. "One thing consoling I glean, my virtuous friend, from your scraps of information – you are not a pirate yourself, or in favor of that science! But I should like to know, old fellow, where I am, and what the deuce I'm here for."

"Well, you'll soon diskiver the perticklers, for here comes the Court, and they'll have you dancin' on nothin' and kickin' at the wind, pooty soon; you kin stake your pile on that!"

And with this, a hum was heard, and soon a mob of a dozen well-stimulated citizens, and strangers about the Point, came rushing and yelling on to the wharf-boat and were quite as immediately gathered around the captive. The first impulse of the posse comitatus appeared to manifest itself in a desire to hang the victim – straight up! A second (how sober we know not) thought induced them to ask a question or two, and for this purpose the presiding judge drew up before the still prostrate captive, and said —

"Who are you? What have you got to say for yourself, anyhow?"

The sunburnt, ragged, and rather romantic-looking prisoner turned his face towards the judge, and replied —

"I have nothing of consequence to say, neighbor. I would like to know, however, what all this means!"

"Where's your crew, you villain?" said the judge.

"Crew? I have never found it necessary to have any, neighbor; navigation never engrossed a great deal of my attention, but I get along down here very well – without a crew!"

"You do?" responded the judge; "well, we're going to hang you up."

"You are, eh?" was the cool reply; "well, I have always been opposed to capital punishment, neighbor, and I know it would be unpleasant to me now!"

The quiet manner of his reply rather won upon the Court, and says the judge—

"Who are you, and where are you from?"

"My name is Banvard – John Banvard, from Boston!"

"It is, eh? What are you doing along here, alone in a canoe?"

"Taking a panorama of the Mississippi, neighbor, that's all."

The Court adjourned sine die; the clever artist was untied, treated to the best the market afforded, that night; his canoe, rifle, &c., restored next day, and John went on his way rejoicing in his narrow escape – finished his sketches, and the first great panorama "got up" in our country, and which he took to Europe, after making a fortune by it in America.

Genius for Business

It's a highly prized faculty in shop-keeping to sell something when a customer comes in, if you can. A female relative of ours went into a Hanover street fancy store 'tother day, to "look over" some ivory card and needle cases; the slightly agricultural-looking clerk "flew around," and when the question "Have you any ivory card cases?" was propounded, he responded —

"Not any, mum;" glancing into the show-case, his visual orbs lit upon a profusion of well-known matters in domestic economy, for the abrogation of certain parasitic insects.

"Haven't any card cases, mum, —got some elegant ivory small-tooth combs!"

Have You Got Any Old Boots?

No slight portion of the ills that flesh is heir to, in a city life, is the culinary item of rent day. Washing day has had its day – machines and fluid have made washing a matter of science and ease, and we are no longer bearded by fuming and uncouth women in the sulks and suds, as of yore, on the day set apart for renovating soiled dimities and dickeys. Another and more important matter, from the extent of its obnoxiousness to our nerves and temper, has come home to our very threshold and hearths, to disturb the even tenor of our domestic quietude and peace.

"Have you got any ole boots?"

Boston lost a good citizen by those bell-pulling, gate-whacking, back-door-pounding infernal collectors of time and care-worn boots. The old boot gatherers were almost as diverting as novel to me, when I first located in Boston; but I have long since learned to hate and abhor them, and their co-laborers in the tin-pan, tape, tea-pot, willow work, and white pine ware trade, with a most religious enthusiasm.

"Have you got any ole boots?"

How often – a hundred times at least, have I gone to the door and heard this inquiry – ten times in one day, for I kept count of it, and used enough "strong language" at each shutting – banging to of the door, to last a "first officer" through a gale of wind.

"Have you got any ole boots?"

The idea of jumping up from your beef steak and coffee, or morning paper – just as you had got into a deeply interesting bit of information on "breadstuff's," California, or the Queen's last baby, to open your door, and espy a grim-visaged and begrimed son of the Emerald Isle, just rearing his phiz above the pyramid of ancient and defiled leather, and meekly asking —

"Have yez got any ole boots?"

These collectors are of course prepared for any amount of explosive gas you may shower down upon their uncombed crowns, as the cool and perfectly-at-home manner they descend your steps to mount those of your next-door neighbor plainly indicates. The "pedlers" and —

"Have you got any ole boots?"

Drove my respected – middle-aged friend Mansfield – clear out of town! Mr. Mansfield was a retired flour merchant; he was not rich, but well to do in the world. He had no children of his own, in lieu of which, however, he had become responsible for the "bringing up" of two orphans of a friend. One of these children was a boy, old enough to be devilish and mightily inclined that way. The boy's name was Philip, the foster father he called Uncle Henry, and not long after arriving in town, and opening house at the South End, Mr. Mansfield – who was given to quiet musings, book and newspaper reading – found that he was likely to become a victim to the aforesaid hawkers, pedlers and old boot collectors.

Uncle Henry stood it for a few months, with the firmness of an experienced philosopher, laying the flattering unction to his soul that, however harrowing —

"Got any ole boots to-day?"

might be to him, for the present, he could grin and bear and finally get used to it, as other people did. But Uncle Henry possessed an irritable and excitable temperament, that not one man in ten thousand could boast of, and hence he grew – at length sour, then savage, and, finally, quite meat-axish, towards every outsider who dared to ring his bell, and proffer wooden ware and tin fixins, for rags and rubbers, or make the never-to-be-forgotten inquiry —

"Have you got any ole boots to-day?"

Always at home, seated in his front parlor, and his frugal wife not permitting the expense of a servant, Uncle Henry, or Master Philip, were obliged to wait on the door. The old gentleman finally concluded that the pedlers and old boot collectors, more as a matter of daily amusement than profit or concern – gave him a call. And laboring under this impression, Uncle Henry determined to give the nuisances, as he called them, a reception commensurate with their impertinence and his worked up ire.

"Now, Philly," said Uncle Henry, one morning after breakfast, "we'll fix these —

"'Got any ole boots?'

"We'll give the rascals a caution, they won't neglect soon, I'll warrant them. Bring me the hammer and nails; that's a man; now get uncle the high chair; so, that's it; now I'll fix this shelf up over the top of the door, on a pivot – bore this hole through here – put the string through that way, here, umph; oh, now we'll have a trap for the scoundrels. I'll learn them how to come pulling people's bells, clean out by the very roots, making us drop all, to come wait on them, rot them —

"'Got any ole boots?'

"I'll give you old boots, by the lord Harry; I'll give you a dose of something you won't forget, to your dying day."

And thus jabbering, fixing and pushing about the revolving shelf, over his hall door, Mr. Mansfield worked away at his trap. Like that of most dwellings in Boston, Uncle Henry's front door was sunk some six or eight feet into the face of the house, reached by a flight of six granite steps – side and top lights to the door, in the ordinary way, with brass plate and bell pull. It was in a neighborhood not plebeian enough to induce butcher boys to enter the hall, with the pork and potatoes, nor admit of the servant girl heaving "slops" out of the front windows; yet not sufficiently parvenu to impress pedlers and

"Got any ole boots?"

with aristocratic or "respectable" awe, ere venturing to mount the steps, pull the bell, and mention tin pots, scrap iron, rags and old leather. Mr. Mansfield was inclined to chuckle in his sleeves at the ruse he would be enabled to give his tormentors through the agency of his revolving battery – charged with ground charcoal and brick dust, to be worked by himself or Philly, by means of a string on the inside. Philly was duly initiated into the modus operandi; when —

"Got any ole boots?"

made his appearance, amid his pyramid of leather, or a pedler's wagon was seen in the neighborhood, Philly was to be on the qui vive, inform Uncle Henry, and if they mounted the steps, he would give them a shower bath upon a new and astonishing principle.

It was perfect "nuts" for Master Phil; he was tickled at the idea, and readily agreed to Uncle Henry's propositions. Not long after arranging the "infernal machine," Uncle Henry's attention was called to another part of the house; a dire calamity had befallen the Canary bird; a strange cat had pounced upon the cage – the door flew open, and puss nabbed the little warbler. Philly, on the look out, in front, discovers two old boot men approaching the neighborhood; desirous of showing his own skill, he did not call Uncle Henry, but posted himself behind the door – string in hand, awaiting the cue. Feet approach – quickly the feet mount the steps.

"Ding al ling, ding de ding, ding, ding, ding!"

"Sh-i-i-s-swashe!" and down comes the avalanche of coal dust and refined brick, the bulk of a peck, fair measurement!

Uncle Henry reached the door just in time to see the penny postman covered from head to foot with the obnoxious composition! Philly took occasion to make a sudden exit, the postman swore – swore like a trooper, but Uncle Henry managed to pack the whole transaction upon the "devilish boy" – brushed the postman's clothes, and after some effort, so mollified him as to induce the sufferer to depart in peace. Uncle Henry tried to be very severe on Philly, but it was very evident to that hopeful that the old gentleman was more tickled than serious. Philly cleared the steps, and the old gentleman re-arranged the trap, admonishing Philly not to dare to meddle with it again, but call him when —

"Got any ole boots?" made their appearance.

All was quiet up to noon next day; Uncle Henry had business down town, and left the house at 9 A. M. Philly was at school, but got home before Uncle Henry, and seeing the pedler wagon near the door – slipped in, and learning that the old gentleman was out, he gladly took charge of the battery again. Now, just as the pedler mounted the steps of the next door, Mr. Mansfield sees him, and hurries up his own steps, to be on the watch for the pedler. Philly had been peeking out the corner of the side curtain, and seeing the pedler coming, as he thought, right up the steps – nabbed the string, and as Uncle Henry caught the knob of the door – down came thundering the brick dust and charcoal both, in the most elegant profusion.

Phil was tricked. Uncle Henry's vociferations were equal to that of a drunken beggar – the trap was removed, Uncle Henry got disgusted with city life, and left – for rural retirement, without as much as giving one single rebuke to —

"Got any ole boots to-day?"

The Vagaries of Nature

Nature seems to have her fitful, frightful, and funny moods, as well as all her children. Now she gets up a stone bridge, the gigantic proportions and the symmetrical development of which attract great attention from all tourists and historians who venture into or speak of "old Virginia." The old dame goes down far into the bowels of Mother Earth, in Kentucky, and builds herself, silently and alone, a stupendous under-ground palace, that laughs to scorn the puny efforts of man in that branch of business. She gets up sugar-loaf mountains, pillars of salt, great granite breastworks, and stone towers; hews out figure-heads, old men's noses on the beetling cliffs of New Hampshire, and throws up rocky palisades along the Hudson, that win wonder and delight from the floating million. Instances out of all number might be raked up, home and abroad, to show how the old dame has cut didoes in the prosecution of her manifold duties. But in Australia, it would seem, nature has taken most especial pains to appear slightly ridiculous or very eccentric.

Old Captain Rocksalt informs us – and there is always wit, wisdom, and truth in the old man's stories – that he made voyages to Australia many times within the past thirty years, and having visited about all the sea-ports of the Continent, lived and almost died in Australia, his notes are worthy of attention. Capt. Cook discovered and named Botany Bay, the name originating from the fact that the land was covered with a luxurious growth of Botanical specimens. The Dutch discovered and named Van Diemen's Land. The English at once concluded to make Botany Bay a penal colony, and the first living freight of criminals and soldiers sent out, was some 700 in number, in 1788; but Capt. Phillip, the commander of the fleet, being dissatisfied with the looks of Botany Bay, hunted up a better place, and sailed to it. When Capt. Cook was cruising off there, one of his sailors, on the look out, cried, "Land ho!"

Cook was over his wine and beef, in the cabin, and it took him some time to "tumble up" on deck.

"Where the deuce is your land, eh?" bawls the old cruiser.

"Larboard beam, sir!" responds the "lookout;" and, sure enough, a long, faint streak of land was visible from deck. The "lookout" announced a harbor, head-lands, &c.; but the rum old captain, not being able to see any such indication, with a chuckle, says he —

"You booby! harbor, eh? Ha, ha! well, we'll call it a port, you powder monkey —Port Jackson!"

And faith, so the lookout, Jackson, became sponsor to the finest harbor in all Australia; for Capt. Phillip, upon rediscovering the harbor, took his fleet into it, and then and there began the now flourishing city of Sydney.

Australia is an Island, lying opposite another – New Zealand. It is on the Indian Ocean, south side, while the east opens to the Pacific. Australia claims to contain a superficial area of over three million square miles, part desert, rather mountainous, and all being in one of the finest climates on the face of the earth. The air is dry, the soil light and sandy; the high winds stir up the dust and fine sand, and make ophthalmy the only positive ill peculiar to the country. Sheep-grazing, wool-growing, and boiling down sheep and cattle for tallow was the great business of the country from its earliest settlement up to 1851, when the gold fever swept the land.