SMITH’S KNOWLEDGE OF GERMAN, ET CETERA.
IN the fall, I determined on another western tour, which I accomplished.
In this tour I visited the following places: Columbus, Dayton, and
Cincinnati, Ohio; Indianapolis and Lafayette, Indiana; Springfield,
Decatur, Bloomington, El Paso, and Peoria, Illinois. I had intended to
go on into Iowa again, but winter came on, and it began to get too cold
for me. So, I returned to Philadelphia shortly before Christmas, _via_
Logansport, Fort Wayne, and Pittsburg.
During this tour, not much happened that would interest or divert the
reader. I might briefly mention one or two amusing incidents that came
under my notice.
Often as I had passed through Lancaster, Pennsylvania, I had never
stopped there; and, on my way west, I determined to drop off for
twenty-four hours. In Lancaster every one talks English and German, (or
Dutch, as they call it there,) with equal fluency; and it is not unusual
for a person relating an incident or making some remarks, to begin in
English, and end in Dutch; or _vice versa_.
While I was sitting in my hotel, not far from the depot, a Lancastrian,
who lounged in, got to telling the proprietor a very interesting story,
of an adventure he had recently met with while hunting ducks. He was
relating the story in English, and I listened with interest. The purport
of the story was that he and another man had shot at a duck
simultaneously; it had fallen, and a dispute had arisen as to which had
brought it down. Just as he reached the crisis of the story, where the
dispute was about to be decided, against the other fellow, of course—and
there seemed some funny circumstance about it, for they laughed
immoderately—he jumped off the track, as it were, and finished in Dutch,
something like this: “Undsehrichtienochtuchuherkroshomlustienblosterb
hionmemmtehtehtchtchch-h-h—h-h-h—h——h——h —— ——-h—— — —h— — —h—cht—AUGH!”
Imagine how tantalizing this was to me. My knowledge of German or Dutch
is very limited. Beyond _Lager Bier und Schweitzer Kase_, _ein_, _swei_,
_drei_ I simply know nothing of any of those Teutonic languages; and I,
therefore, do not, to this day, know the _denouement_ of the
Lancastrian’s story.
While in Lancaster, I took the liberty of calling on two prominent men
of opposite political parties, both of whom have since passed away. I
allude to James Buchanan and Thaddeus Stevens. Each received me
cordially and conversed with me in an easy and pleasant manner. From the
citizens of Lancaster, I learned that they were kind-hearted and noble
men, and that their private characters were above reproach. Those two
public men were regarded with some bitterness during their lives; but
whatever may have been their errors, I believe they were errors of the
head and not of the heart. They are at rest now, and I earnestly ask the
whole people of our Country to join me in saying—“PEACE TO THE ASHES OF
BOTH!”
I shall never forget the extraordinary courage I saw displayed by an
hotel clerk, in Columbus, Ohio, while sojourning there during the little
tour in question. I was in the sitting-room, one day, when a large,
rough-looking man, in a state of inebriation, came in, took a seat in
one of the arm-chairs, and manifested symptoms of slumber. The clerk
soon saw him, went promptly to him, and gave him to understand that that
state of things wouldn’t do.
“Come,” said the clerk, “this won’t do. You must get out of this. We
don’t want a man to come in here drunk, and sit around half asleep.”
“Wha-at?” growled the inebriate.
“I say you must get out of this,” said the clerk, laying his hand on his
shoulder. “Come!”
He said this in a decided tone, as though he expected the drunken
gentleman to get up and be led out. But the man made no move toward
getting up, and, moreover, didn’t appear to be much afraid of the clerk.
“Did you hear what I said?” demanded the latter, shaking him slightly.
“Well, s’pose I did? What then?”
Such impudence to an hotel clerk!
“What then! I’ll show you what then! Now, you get out o’ here!” And he
seized the inebriate’s shoulder.
Thereupon the latter arose slowly, and I supposed he was going out; but
when he got straightened up, he turned defiantly on the clerk, and
raised his fist as though about to strike “from the shoulder.”
“Clear out, you darn cuss!” he said, to the frightened clerk, who
retreated with agility. “Don’ come layin’ yer hands onto me, or I’ll
batter the nose off o’ yer face!”
“Well, you’ve got to get out of here,” said the clerk.
“You can’t put me out,” retorted the intoxicated gentleman, defiantly.
“You’ll see pretty soon,” said the clerk, who, however, kept at a safe
distance. “I’m not going to allow a fellow that’s been somewhere and got
full of rum to come in here and sleep it off! You got nothing to drink
in _this_ house.”
“I would if I’d ’a’ wanted it.”
“You would, eh?” The clerk now walked toward the door, and, in doing so,
was obliged to pass within a few feet of the intruder; and the latter,
not knowing what his intentions were, turned round slowly, as if on a
pivot, so as to keep his face toward the clerk till he went out. In
about three-quarters of a minute the latter returned, and exclaimed:
“What! Haven’t you gone yet?”
“No—nor aint a goin’ till I’m ready. An’, look out!” he exclaimed, as
the clerk approached him again. “Don’t ye come near me, or I’ll
_spilter_ ye!”
I do not know exactly what he meant by this remarkable word, as I have
searched in vain for it in the lexicons of several languages; but I
suppose he meant something dreadful.
The clerk, however, did not seem inclined, as yet to make any aggressive
movement: he merely walked past him, as before and again the pugnacious
gentleman stood on the defensive, and personated a first-class pivot.
Strange as it may seem, I could not help fancying that if I had been in
authority at the hotel, as the clerk was, I would not have trifled quite
so long with an insolent drunken man.
While these sage thoughts were revolving in my mind, the clerk seemed to
grow all at once inspired with extraordinary courage. Starting suddenly
from where he stood, he walked briskly toward the intruder, saying,
decidedly:
“Now walk out of here in less than a second!” And he actually laid hands
on the big fellow.
The secret of the matter was that two policemen entered at that moment,
having been sent for by the clerk at the time of his brief absence from
the room; and that was what raised his courage so wonderfully. The two
officers walked the pugnacious inebriate out, and the clerk followed him
to the door, saying:
“Confound you! You won’t come in here loafing around! Next time you try
such a game, I’ll kick you out!”
“Go to——” The sound of the loafer’s voice died away, as he was trotted
out by the preservers of the peace, and I am unable to record what the
rest of the sentence was.
While at Decatur, Illinois, I heard a conversation between a traveler
and an hotel clerk, that strikingly exemplifies the irregularity of
western railroad trains.
“What time does the train go to Springfield?” he inquired, at the
counter, about eight o’clock in the evening.
“At twelve,” replied the clerk.
“Then,” rejoined the traveler, who was evidently posted, “give me a
room, and wake me at about one. That will be time enough.”
He was right. The “twelve o’clock train” from Lafayette, going through
to Springfield, did not come along till about fifteen minutes after one.
In the winter time, a traveler in the west can always count on a train
about one hour after its time, unless some unusual accident has delayed
it.
At Logansport, Indiana, I got taken down a little. The way of it was
this: On the train from Peoria, I made the acquaintance of a gentleman
who kept an hotel in Logansport, and, in the course of the morning, as
we neared that place, I borrowed a literary paper from him, which I
forgot to return. Having an hour or two to wait for a train to Fort
Wayne, where I should be obliged to change cars again for Pittsburg, I
went into the hotel of the gentleman mentioned, for the purpose of
getting breakfast. Having taken breakfast, I thought of the paper I had
borrowed, and not seeing the landlord, and desiring to return it to the
owner in person, and thank him for the favor, I asked the clerk where he
was
“He is out at the stables,” returned the clerk.
“Will he be in soon?”
“I don’t know. He went out to show a man a horse that he has for sale.”
“Then I will go out; shall I go through this way?” I asked, pointing to
a path leading from the rear of the house to the stables.
“Yes, go right out that way. But be careful. There is a dog out in the
yard that is a little cross sometimes, and——”
“O,” I interrupted, carelessly, “no dog bites _me_. I am not afraid.”
The fact is, I have ever prided myself on the “charm” I can exercise
over the canine race, and have often taken the most ill-natured dogs in
my hands, picked them up bodily, and even put my hands invitingly to
their mouths, and they have not harmed me. The reason is simply that I
never shrink from them, or exhibit any fear; which demeanor inspires the
sagacious creatures with respect for a fellow.
It was a large, and beautifully-spotted black-and-white dog, and, as I
pursued my way to the stables, it came trotting out from a kennel it
occupied, and looked at me as much as to say:
“Are you afraid of me, sir?”
I looked calmly down upon the animal, as if to reply:
“Sagacious creature, I am not.”
To prove that I wasn’t, I paused to admire it, and fearlessly laid my
hand upon its head. Thereupon, it capered around me, joyfully, and made
a succession of springs upon me as though to kiss me. Just then three
juvenile canines, that I had not observed before, came running from the
kennel; and their resemblance to the adult one was so striking, that I
had no difficulty in making out the fact that a near relationship
existed between and among them. I stooped down to pat one of the little
beauties on the head, and just then, the big one made another playful
spring at my face, not with any intention of biting me,—I’ll be sworn to
that,—when one of its confounded, awkward teeth struck me just below the
eye and penetrated to the cheek-bone; and the crimson “gore” flowed from
the incision.
It was a most provoking circumstance, for the clerk was looking from the
window, and the landlord and another man just then appeared at the
stable-door, all thinking that the dog had bitten me; which placed me in
a ridiculous light, in the eyes of the clerk, after my boast that dogs
were not in the habit of biting me. Although the dog did not purposely
hurt me, and was still capering about, playfully, I execrated its
awkwardness, and felt that I could have knocked the top of its head off
with my crutch—had no one been looking. It was a female dog, too, and I
told it so, very concisely, in my vexation: which was all the
satisfaction I had.
* * * * *
Traveling incessantly for forty-eight hours, I reached Philadelphia on a
winter night, when the wind was howling and the snow falling fast. I had
slept very little on the trains during the last two nights, and it might
well be surmised that an individual like John Smith (or “any other man”)
would feel like “turning in,” under the circumstances. Such a conclusion
would be but rational.
But it is said that, “Man is a creature of circumstances;” and that
adage was fully exemplified by my remarkable experience on that
memorable night.
I had already instructed the baggage-agent on the Pennsylvania Central
train to send my trunk to my residence, and I was just stepping forth
from the depot, at Thirty-first and Market streets, with the view of
walking home through the jovial snow-storm, when a familiar voice
accosted me with:
“Hallo, Smith! Where have you been this long time? Where are you going?”
I recognized a young friend named Feeny, who was standing near a sleigh,
to which two handsome and spirited horses were attached. In the sleigh
sat another friend named Aaron, who also said:
“Why, Smith! How do you do? Glad to see you. Where have you been?”
“In the West,” I replied.
“Going home?”
“Yes.”
“Not going to walk?”
“Yes.”
“O, don’t do that! Get into the sleigh with Feeny and me, and ride.”
“By all means,” urged Feeny.
“Are you going directly home?” They lived near my residence.
“N—no—but that need make no difference. We were just taking a little
sleigh-ride. You don’t mind a ride of an hour before you go home?”
“I am rather weary,” I replied. “I have been rattling along in the cars
for two days and two nights. Have come all the way from Peoria,
Illinois.”
“Well, jump in. We will at least take a little drive down Darby Road.
You must feel chilly. Here is something to warm you.”
This was an article of glassware, containing a genial fluid, designed
for the interior of mankind. Having availed myself of this blessing, I
sprung into the sleigh; Feeny jumped in after me; and we dashed away in
the blinding storm.
“We were just at the depot to meet a friend we expected,” said he, “but
he did not come.”
Away we went out Market street, defying even the wintry wind to outstrip
us. Instead of turning down the Darby Road, as proposed, we kept on out
Market street.
“We’ll take a little ride out this way first,” said Mr. Aaron, “then we
will return, go down Darby Road, cross Gray’s Ferry Bridge, and go
home.”
“All right!”
We had an extensive ride through West Philadelphia; and candor compels
me to say that some of the proprietors of hotels in that vicinity lost
nothing by it.
At last, we found ourselves dashing down Darby Road: the noble steeds
still fresh and vigorous, and we three “jolly boys” suffering nothing at
all from the malady known as “depression of spirits.”
Rest! I thought not of it now. I remembered not that I had slept none
for two nights. Away we went in the snow-storm; the wide fields of snow
my imaginary bed, the murky clouds my curtains, the wind and
sleigh-bells singing a merry song in concert to lull me to—wakefulness
and mirth.
We approached a certain toll-gate. What hour it was, I can never know;
but any one supposing it to be earlier than the beginning of another
day, would subject himself to great ridicule among the “posted.”
“Wonder if the toll-man’s up?” said Feeny.
“Doubtful,” responded Aaron.
“We’ll wake him, of course,” said I.
“Certainly—if we can yell loud enough.”
We dashed onward. So far from tiring, our horses seemed to gain new
strength and energy just then. The toll-gate and the little house there
situated, were very near.
We did not slacken our speed.
“Toll!” yelled Feeny, in a loud voice.
“Toll! Toll!” shouted Aaron, as we reached the gate without stopping.
“Toll! Toll! Toll!” I shrieked, in a jolly mood as we dashed by.
Alas! the keeper of the gate never had the felicity to receive that
“toll.” He did not get his _due_; but we got plenty of _snow_.
“Get up! Get up!” screamed Aaron, addressing the horses.
The animals “flew.”
The snow-covered road rushed away behind us so fast that I fancied we
were leaving the whole earth behind, and plunging away into space.
“Hurrah! Hurrah!” shouted Feeny.
“Hip-Hip-Hoowee!”
We reached the road leading to Gray’s Ferry Bridge, and Mr. Aaron, who
had the lines, drove recklessly “round the corner.”
The result may be imagined. The centrifugal force overturned the sleigh
in about the sixteenth part of a second; we were all spilt; Aaron was
hurled into a fence-corner; Feeny was scattered along the road behind
the sleigh; I, with my crutch and cane strewn all around me, was
“chucked” into a snow-bank at the road-side, in an inverted
position—fairly buried in the cold snow, and my lonely foot pointing up
toward the clouded heavens: and in the midst of this scene of general
confusion, our conveyance dashed away through the winter night, and—we
had to pick ourselves up and walk home, a distance of two miles and
three quarters!
[Illustration:
“I was chucked into a snow bank and fairly buried in an inverted
position, my lonely foot pointing up towards the clouded
heavens.”—_On the Darby Road._ _Page_ 292.
]