 | ORAL ANECDOTES OF WELL-KNOWN INDIVIDUALS. The little Frenchman and his water lots, with other sketches of the times |  |
ORAL ANECDOTES OF WELL-KNOWN INDIVIDUALS.
When Commodore Porter last visisted this city,
he spent much of his time at the hospitable mansion
of the late General Morton, who, as every body knows,
was a gentleman of the old school, and a man of very
agreeable wit and compliment. The walls of the
general's library were graced with various productions
of the pencil and graver, and among them full-length
portraits of several distinguished naval officers—Decatur,
Bainbridge, Perry, Morris, and
others. The commodore expressed his admiration
of the fidelity and effect of these; but said they
were too large. “Now, I intend to add my portrait
to your collection shortly; but it shall be done in
quite a different style.”
“Then you do not like these?” said the general.
“Not exactly,” replied the commodore; “there's
entirely too much canvas.”
“That's a very singular objection for you to
make,” observed the facetious general, directing the
attention of his guest to a small picture representing
the engagement of the Essex with a frigate and a
sloop of war, off Valparaiso, which hung in one
corner of the room, “a very singular objection,
indeed, when we have before us an evidence that it
take you.”
There are many good stories in circulation respecting
our worthy fellow-citizen, Preserved Fish.
This gentleman, in early life, was a sea-captain.
One day his vessel was hailed by a brig, when the
following dialogue took place:
“Ship a-hoy?”
“Hallo!”
“Who's your captain?”
“Preserved Fish.”
“Who?”
“Preserved Fish.”
The master of the brig, thinking he was misunderstood,
and wondering at the stupidity of the
opposite party, again applied the trumpet to his
mouth and bawled out,
“I say, mister, I don't want to know what your
cargo is; but what's your captain's n-a-m-e?”
The late Major Fairlie was a marked, original and
peculiar character. When the new constitution of
this state was submitted to the people for adoption,
they were required to deposite either the word yes
or no in the ballot boxes. There was no accepting
the good and rejecting the bad parts of it. No alteration
or amendment whatever would be permitted.
Major F. thought the new document, in many respects,
far preferable to the old one, but he did not
altogether fancy it as it stood. On being asked his
opinion, he said,
“That instrument is like a good oyster, but it's
plaguy hard to be compelled to swallow the shells
along with it.”
The pious Mr. —, who, by the way, is suspected
of being no better than he should be, notwithstanding
all his professions, a short time since rebuked
a well-known merchant of this city for using profane
language.
“Your discourse is ungentlemanly and impious,”
said Mr.—. “You should break yourself of such
an abominable practice.”
“I know it,” returned the dealer in cotton-bales
and profanity; “but most men fall into some error
or other unknown to themselves, yet they are entirely
innocent of all intention to do wrong, notwithstanding
their little inaccuracies—now I swear a
great deal, and you pray a great deal, yet neither of
us, I'm confident, means any thing by it.”
When Mr. Lee was mayor of the city of New-York,
he happened to be in conversation with a
rolled past.
“I was aware,” observed his companion, “that
your honour was destined to play many conspicuous
parts in the great drama of human life; but I never
expected to see you on the public stage!”
No man in this community had a larger circle of
acquaintance than the late Doctor Hosack. He stood
in Wall-street half an hour one morning, talking
with a friend, and almost every body spoke to him
as they passed. It is incredible the number of
nods and how-d'ye-dos and how-are-yes the worthy
physician received in the short space above mentioned.
These, however, were so numerous as to
induce his friend to remark—
“Why, doctor, you appear to be pretty well known
in New-York?”
“Yes,” replied the M. D., with a little pardonable
self-conceit, “I think, if I were to commit murder,
they would find me out.”
“Why, yes,” returned the other, “except you did
it in the way of your profession!”
The doctor, it is said, did not relish the joke.
Doctors are fond of ridiculing each other, and
their controversies are at times quite amusing. Now
it is well known that the practitioners of the old
new. Among your regular Galens, homœpathia
is exceedingly unpopular—they scout it on all occasions.
A lady called on Dr. Francis, an eminent
practitioner, and an adherent of the Sangrado system,
with an imaginary complaint of the heart, and
was recommended by him in derision to try Dr.
Hahncmann's method. “What is that?” asked the
invalid. “Why, madam,” said he, “it is a sovereign
remedy for every complaint under the sun. In your
case, I would advise you to dissolve one grain of
muriate of soda (common salt) in a hogshead of
water, and take a teaspoonful every three months.”
The lady followed the advice thus given, and strange
to say, after two doses, was entirely cured of her
complaint, and recommended it to others as a specific
in all similar cases. Such is the power of the
imagination!
During the “panick” in the money market some
few years ago, a meeting of merchants was held in
the Exchange, to devise ways and means to extricate
themselves from their pecuniary difficulties.
The great hall was crowded, addresses were made,
resolutions passed, committees appointed, and everything
done that is usual and necessary. After all
this, one of the company moved that the meeting
stand adjourned until some future day, when up
and requested the merchants to linger a moment, as
he had something of the greatest importance to communicate.
The jobber was known to be a very
diffident person; and, as he had never ventured on
the responsibilities of a speech on any former public
occasion, all were anxious to hear what he had
to say.—“Gentlemen,” said he, with evident emotion,
and in the most emphatic, feeling and eloquent
manner, “what's the use of talking of some future
day? We want relief, I tell you!—immediate relief!”
and down he sat amidst a universal roar of laughter.
The next day he failed!
The late Charles Gilfert, the quondam manager
of the Bowery theatre, was a peculiar fellow, and
one of the most fascinating men of his day. At
Albany he met with a Mr. Lemair, a Frenchman, of
whom he borrowed money until he nearly ruined
him. Lemair was one day in a towering rage at the
cause of his misfortunes, and used to tell the following
characteristic story of his friend:—“Monsieur
Charles Gilfert, he come to Albany. He have ruin
me in my business—mes affaires. He borrow de
l'argent from me to large amount. He go to New-York,
and promise to send him, right avay, ver
quick. But, voyez-vous, when I write him, he return
me von réponse inconvenante, von impudent
him. I leave Albany instantly, determined to have
the grand personal satisfaction for the affront he put
upon me. I walk straight avay from de bateau á
vapeur, de steamboat. I go to my boarding-house.
I procure von large stick, and rush out of de pension
to meet him. By-and-by, bientôt, I see him von large
vay off, very remotely. I immedaitely button up
my coat vith strong determination, and hold my
stick fierce in my hand, to break his neck several
time. Ven he come near, my indignation rise.
He put out his hand. I reject him. He smile, and
look over his spectacles at me. I say, you von
scoundrel, coquin infame. He smile de more, and
make un grand effort, a great trial, to pacify my
grande indignation, and before he leave me, he borrow
twenty dollare from me once more, by gar! A
ver pleasant man vas Monsieur Charles Gilfert; ver
nice man to borrow l'argent, ma foi!”
Gilfert, like Sheridan, was in the habit of borrowing
money from everybody, very little of which was
ever paid back; but he always intended to return
it at the time he promised. He was a visionary
man, and did not make the best calculations in the
world. We heard of his meeting a friend in the
Bowery, one day, when the following circumstance
took place:
“Ah,” said Gilfert, “you are the very man I
wanted to see. Lend me two hundred dollars.”
“I would, in a moment,” replied his friend,” “but
it is impossible. I have a note to pay, and I don't
know where to get the money.”
“A note, said Gilfert, “so have I. Let me see
your notice.”
The gentleman produced it from his pocket-book.
“Well,” said Gilfert, “how much are you short?”
“About two hundred dollars,” said his friend.
To his utter surprise, Gilfert handed him the money.
“There,” said he, “go and pay your note. I'll
let mine be protested, as they can't both be taken
up. If your note laid over, it might hurt your
credit, but with me it don't matter, as I am used to
that sort of business.”
At one time Gilfert owed Conrad, the printer, a
bill. Conrad grew tired of dunning him for it, and
one day wrote Gilfert a letter, which put the manager
in a towering fury. Down he sat, and challenged
Conrad to fight, declaring that if he refused, he
would horsewhip him in the public streets the next
day. Conrad returned for answer that he would
not fight, until his bill was paid, as no man in his
senses would voluntarily go out to shoot at his own
money. Some few weeks after this occurrence,
Gilfert had an unexpected windfall. Conrad received
the following terms:
“My dear conrad—I was wrong, but you had
no right to insult me. Yet I ought to have paid you
the money before. I enclose it to you now, principal
and interest. Come and dine with me. Tout
à vous.
What a pity it is that some good writer would not
give us the memoirs of this extraordinary man.
| ORAL ANECDOTES OF WELL-KNOWN INDIVIDUALS. The little Frenchman and his water lots, with other sketches of the times | |