The Humors of Falconbridge Part 33

Jipson _drew_ on his employers, for a quarter's salary. The draft was honored, of course, but it led to some _speculation_ on the part of "the firm," as to what Jipson was up to, and whether he wasn't getting into evil habits, and decidedly bad economy in his old age. Jipson talked, Mrs. Jipson talked. Their almost--in fact, Mrs. J., like most ambitious mothers, thought, _really_--marriageable daughters dreamed and talked dinner parties for the full month, ere the great event of their lives came duly off.

One of the seeming difficulties was who to invite--who to get to come, and _where_ to get them! Now, originally, the Jipsons were from the "Hills of New Hamps.h.i.+re, of poor but respectable" birth. Fifteen years in the great metropolis had not created a very extensive acquaintance among solid folks; in fact, New York society fluctuates, ebbs and flows at such a rate, that society--such as domestic people might recognize as unequivocally genteel--is hard to fasten to or find. But one of the Miss Jipsons possessed an acquaintance with a Miss Somebody else, whose brother was a young gentleman of very _distingue_ air, and who knew the entire "ropes" of fas.h.i.+onable life, and people who enjoyed that sort of existence in the gay metropolis.

Mr. Theophilus Smith, therefore, was eventually engaged. It was his, as many others' vocation, to arrange details, command the feast, select the company, and control the coming event. The Jipsons confined their invitations to the few, very few genteel of the family, and even the diminutiveness of the number invited was decimated by Mr. Smith, who was permitted to review the parties invited.

Few domiciles--of civilian, "above Bleecker st.,"--were better illuminated, set off and detailed than that of Jipson, on the evening of the ever-memorable dinner. Smith had volunteered to "engage" a whole set of silver from Tinplate & Co., who generously offer our ambitious citizens such opportunities to splurge, for a fair consideration; while china, porcelain, a dozen colored waiters in white ap.r.o.ns, with six plethoric fiddlers and tooters, were also in Smith's programme. Jipson at first was puzzled to know where he could find volunteers to fill two dozen chairs, but when night came, Mr. Theophilus Smith, by force of tactics truly wonderful, drummed in a force to face a gross of plates, napkins and wine gla.s.ses.

Mrs. Jipson was evidently astonished, the Misses J. not a little vexed at the "raft" of elegant ladies present, and the independent manner in which they monopolized attention and made themselves at home.

Jipson swore inwardly, and looked like "a sorry man." Smith was at home, in his element; he was head and foot of the party. Himself and friends soon led and ruled the feast. The band struck up; the corks flew, the wine _fizzed_, the ceilings were spattered, and the walls tattooed with Burgundy, Claret and Champagne!

"To our host!" cries Smith.

"Yes--ah! 'ere's--ah! to our a--our host!" echoes another swell, already insolently "corned."

"Where the--a--where is our worthy host?" says another specimen of "above Bleecker street" genteel society. "I--a say, trot out your host, and let's give the old fellow a toast!"

"Ha! ha! b-wavo! b-wavo!" exclaimed a dozen shot-in-the-neck bloods, spilling their wine over the carpets, one another, and table covers.

"This is intolerable!" gasps poor Jipson, who was in the act of being kept _cool_ by his wife, in the drawing-room.

"Never mind, Jipson----"

"Ah! there's the old fellaw!" cries one of the swells.

"I-ah--say, Mister----"

"Old roostaw, I say----"

"Gentlemen!" roars Jipson, rus.h.i.+ng forward, elevating his voice and fists.

"For heaven's sake! Jipson," cries the wife.

"Gentlemen, or bla'guards, as you are."

"Oh! oh! Jipson, will you hear me?" imploringly cries Mrs. Jipson.

"What--ah--are you at? Does he--ah----"

"Yes, what--ah--does old Jip say?"

"Who the deuce, old What's-your-name, do you call gentlemen?" chimes in a third.

"Bla'guards!" roars Jipson.

"Oh, veri well, veri well, old fellow, we--ah--are--ah--to blame for--ah--patronizing a sn.o.b," continues a swell.

"A what?" shouts Jipson.

"A plebeian!"

"A codfish--ah----"

"Villains! scoundrels! bla'guards!" shouts the outraged Jipson, rus.h.i.+ng at the intoxicated swells, and hitting right and left, upsetting chairs, tables, and lamps.

"Murder!" cries a knocked down guest.

"E-e-e-e-e-e!" scream the ladies.

"Don't! E-e-e-e! don't kill my father!" screams the daughter.

Chairs and hats flew; the negro servants and Dutch fiddlers, only engaged for the occasion, taking no interest in a free fight, and not caring two cents who whipped, laid back and--

"Yaw! ha! ha! De lor'! Yaw! ha! ha!"

Mrs. Jipson fainted; ditto two others of the family; the men folks (!) began to travel; the ladies (!) screamed; called for their hats, shawls, and _chaperones_,--the most of the latter, however, were _non est_, or too well "set up," to heed the common state of affairs.

Jipson finally cleared the house. Silence reigned within the walls for a week. In the interim, Mrs. Jipson and the daughters not only got over their hysterics, but ideas of gentility, as practised "above Bleecker street." It took poor Jipson an entire year to recuperate his financial "outs," while it took the whole family quite as long to get over their grand debut as followers of fas.h.i.+on in the great metropolis.

Look out for them Lobsters.

Deacon ----, who resides in a pleasant village inside of an hour's ride upon Fitchburg road, rejoices in a fondness for the long-tailed _crustacea_, vulgarly known as lobsters. And, from messes therewith fulminated, by _some_ of our professors of gastronomics that we have seen, we do not attach any wonder at all to the deacon's penchant for the aforesaid sh.e.l.l-fish. The deacon had been disappointed several times by a.s.sertions of the lobster merchants, who, in their overwhelming zeal to effect a sale, had been a little too sanguine of the precise _time_ said lobsters were caught and boiled; hence, after lugging home a ten pound specimen of the vasty deep, miles out into the quiet country, the deacon was often sorely vexed to find the lobster no better than it should be!

"Why don't you get them alive, deacon?" said a friend,--"get them alive and kicking, deacon; boil them yourself; be sure of their freshness, and have them cooked more carefully and properly."

"Well said," quoth the deacon; "so I can, for they sell them, I observe, near the depot,--right out of the boat. I'm much obliged for the notion."

The next visit of the good deacon to Boston,--as he was about to return home, he goes to the bridge and bargains for two live lobsters, fine, active, l.u.s.ty-clawed fellows, alive and kicking, and no mistake!

"But what will I do with them?" says the deacon to the purveyor of the _crustacea_, as he gazed wistfully upon the two sprawling, ugly, green and scratching lobsters, as they lay before him upon the planks at his feet.

"Do with 'em?" responded the lobster merchant,--"why, bile 'em and eat 'em! I bet you a dollar you never ate better lobsters 'n them, nohow, mister!"

The deacon looked anxiously and innocently at the speaker, as much as to say--"you don't say so?"

"I mean, friend, how shall I get them home?"

"O," says the lobster merchant, "that's easy enough; here, Saul," says he, calling up a frizzle-headed lad in blue pants--_sans_ hat or boots, and but one _gallows_ to his breeches, "here, you, light upon these lobsters and carry 'em home for this old gentleman."

"Goodness, bless you," says the deacon; "why friend, I reside ten miles out in the country!"

"O, the blazes you do!" says the lobster merchant; "well, I tell you, Saul can carry 'em to the cars for you in this 'ere bag, if you're goin'

out?"