A few weeks ago, during a passage from Gotham to Boston, on the "_Empire
State_," one of the most elegant and swift steamers that ever man's
ingenuity put upon the waters, I met a well-known joker from the Quaker
city, on his first trip "down East." After mutually examining and
eulogising the external appearance and internal arrangements of the
"Empire," winding up our investigation, of course, with a _look_ into a
small corner cupboard in the barber's office, where a superb _smile_--as
_is_ a smile--can be usually enjoyed by the _nobbish_ investment of a
York shilling; soon after passing through "Hell Gate"--gliding by the
beautiful villas, chateaux, and almost princely palaces of the business
men of the great city of New York, we were soon out upon the broad, deep
Sound, a glorious place for steam-boating. Soon after, the bells
announced "supper ready"--a general stampede into the spacious cabin
took place, and though the tables strung along forty rods on each side
of the great cabin, not over half the crowd got seats upon this
interesting occasion. I was _about_ with my friend--in _time_, stuck our
legs under the mahogany, and gazed upon the open prospect for a supper
superb enough in all its details to tempt a jolly old friar from his
devotions. We got along very nicely. An old chap who sat above us some
seats, and whose rotund developments gave any ordinary observer reason
to suppose his appetite as unquenchable as the Maelstrom, kept reaching
about, and when tempting vessels were too remote, he'd bawl "right eout"
for them.
"Halloo! I say you, Mister there, just hand along that saas; give us a
chance, will ye, at that; notion on't, what d'ye call that stuff?"
"This?" says one, passing along a dish.
"Pshaw, no, t'other there."
"Oh! ah! yes, _this_," says my facetious friend.
"Well, that ain't it, but no odds; fetch it along!" and down we sent the
biggest dish of meat in our neighborhood.
"Now," says I, "my boy, I'll show you a 'dodge.' We'll see how it
works."
Filling a plate full to the brim, with all and each of the various
_heavy_ courses in our vicinity, I very politely passed it over to my
next neighbor with--
"Please to pass that up, sir?"
"Umph, eh?" says the gentleman, taking hold of the plate very gingerly;
"pass it _up_?"
"Aye, yes, if you please," says I.
By this time he had fairly got the loaded plate in his fists, and began
to look about him where to pass the plate _to_. Nobody in particular
seemed on the watch for a _spare_ plate. The gent looked back at me, but
I was "cutting away" and watching from the extreme corner of my left eye
the victim and his charge, while I pressed hard upon the corn pile of my
friend's foot under the table.
At length, the victim thought he saw some one up the table waiting for
the plate, and quickly he whispered to his next neighbor--
"Please, sir, to-to-a, _just pass this plate up!_"
The man took the plate, and being more of a practical operator than his
neighbor, gave the plate over to _his_ next neighbor, with--
"Pass this plate up to that gentleman, if you please," dodging his head
towards an old gent in specs, who sat near the head of the table,
grinning a ghastly smile over the field of good things.
"It's _going!_"
"_What?_" says my friend.
"The plate; it's going the rounds; just you keep quiet, you'll see a
good thing."
The plate, at length, got to the head of the table. It was given to the
old gentleman in specs; he looked over the top of his specs very
deliberately at the "fodder," then back at the thin, pale,
student-looking youth who handed it to him, then up and down the table.
A raw-boned, gaunt and hollow-looking disciple caught the eye of the old
gent; he must be the man who wanted the "load." His lips quacked as if
in the act of--"pass this plate, sir,"--to his next neighbor; he was too
far off for us to _hear_ his discourse. Well, the plate came booming
along down the opposite side; the tall man declined it and gave it over
to his next neighbor, who seemed a little tempted to take hold of the
invoice, but just then it occurred to him, probably, that he was keeping
_somebody_ (!) out of his grub, so he quickly turned to his neighbor and
passed the plate. One or two more moves brought the plate within our
range, and there it liked to have _stuck_, for a fussy old Englishman,
in whom politeness did not stick out very prominently, grunted--
"I don't want it, sir."
"Well, but, sir, please _pass it_," says the last victim, beseechingly
holding out the plate.
"Pass it? Here, mister, 's your plate," says Bull, at length reluctantly
seizing on the plate, and rushing it on to his next neighbor, who
started--
"Not mine, sir."
"Not yours! Who does it belong to? Pass it down to somebody."
Off went the plate again. Several ladies turned up their pretty eyes and
noses while the gents _passed it_ by them.
"Why, if there ain't that plate a going the rounds, that you gave me!"
says my next neighbor, to whom I had first given the "currency."
"That plate? Oh, yes, so it is; well," says I, with feigned
astonishment, "this is the first time I ever saw a good supper so
universally discarded!"
The plate was off again. It reached the foot of the table. An elderly
lady looked up, looked around, removed a large sweet potato from the
pile--then passed it along. An old salty-looking captain, just then took
a vacant seat, and the plate reached him just in the nick of time. He
looked voracious--
"Ah," said he, with a savage growl, "that's your sort; thunder and
oakum, I'm as peckish as a shark, and here's the _duff for me!_"
That ended the peregrinations of the plate, and I and my friend--_yelled
right out!_
A Hint to Soyer.
Magrundy says, in his work on _Grub_, that a Frenchman will "frigazee" a
pair of old boots and make a respectable soup out of an ancient chapeau;
but our friend Perriwinkle affirms that the French ain't "nowhere,"
after a feat he saw in the kitchen arrangement of a "cheap boarding
house" in the North End:--the landlady made a chowder out of an old
broom mixed with sinders, and after all the boarders had dined upon it
scrumptiously, the remains made broth for the whole family, next day,
besides plenty of fragments left for a poor family! That landlady is
bound--_to make Rome howl!_
The Leg of Mutton.
I'm going to state to you the remarkable adventures of a very remarkable
man, who went to market to get a leg of mutton for his Sunday dinner. I
have heard, or read somewhere or other, almost similar stories; whether
they were real or imaginary, I am unable to say; but I can vouch for the
authenticity of my story, for I know the hero well.
In the year 1812, it will be recollected that we had some military
disputes with England, which elicited some pretty tall fights by land
and sea, and the land we live in was considerably excited upon the
subject, and patriotism rose to many degrees above blood heat.
Philadelphia, about that time, like all other cities, I suppose, was the
scene of drum-beating, marching and counter-marching, and volunteering
of the patriotic people.
The President sent forth his proclamations, the governors of the
respective States reiterated them, and a large portion of our brave
republicans were soon in or marching to the battle field. There lived
and wrought at his trade, carpentering, in the city of Philadelphia,
about that time, a very tall, slim man, named Houp; Peter Houp, that was
his name. He was a very steady, upright, and honest man, married, had a
small, comfortable family, and to all intents and purposes, settled down
for life. How deceptive, how unstable, how uncertain is man, to say
nothing of the more frail portion of the creation--woman! Peter Houp one
fair morning took his basket on his arm, and off he went to get a leg of
mutton and trimmings for his next Sunday's dinner. Beyond the object of
research, Peter never dreamed of extending his travels for that day,
certain. A leg of mutton is not an indifferent article, well cooked, a
matter somewhat different to amateur cooks; and as good legs of mutton
as can be found on this side of the big pond, can be found almost any
Saturday morning in the Pennsylvania market wagons, which congregate
along Second street, for a mile or two in a string. Peter could have
secured his leg and brought it home in an hour or two at most.
But hours passed, noon came, and night followed it, and in the course of
time, the morrow, the joyous Sunday, for which the _leg of mutton_ was
to be brought and prepared, and offered up, a sacrifice to the household
gods and grateful appetites, came, but neither the leg of mutton, nor
the man Peter, husband and father Houp, darkened the doors of the
carpenter's humble domicil, that day, the next or the next! I cannot, of
course, realize half the agony or tortures of suspense that must have
preyed upon that wife's heart and brain, that must have haunted her
feverish dreams at night, and her aching mind by day. When grim death
strikes a blow, whenever so near and dear a friend is levelled, cold,
breathless, dead--we see, we know there is the end! Grief has its
season, the bitterest of woe then calms, subsides, or ceases; but
_lost_--which hope prevents mourning as dead, and whose death-like
absence almost precludes the idea that they live, engenders in the soul
of true affection, a gloomy, torturing and desponding sorrow, more
agonizing than the sting actual death leaves behind. I have endeavored
to depict what must have been, what were the feelings of Peter Houp's
wife. She mourned and grieved, and still hoped on, though months and
years passed away without imparting the slightest clue to the
unfortunate fate of her husband. Her three children, two boys and a
girl, grew up; ten, eleven, twelve years passed away, with no tidings of
the lost man having reached his family; but they still lived with a kind
of despairing hope that the husband and father would yet _come home_,
and so he did.
Let us see what became of Peter Houp, the carpenter. As he strolled
along with his basket under his arm, on the eventful morning he sought
the leg of mutton, he met a platoon of men dressed up in uniform,
muskets on their shoulders, colors flying, drums beating, and a mob of
hurrahers following and shouting for the volunteers. Yes, it was a
company of volunteers, just about shipping off for the South, to join
the "Old Zack" of that day, General Jackson. Peter Houp saw in the ranks
of the volunteers several of his old _chums_; he spoke to them, walked
along with the men of Mars, got inspired--patriotic--_drunk_. Two days
after that eventful Saturday, on which the quiet, honest, and
industrious carpenter left his wife and children full of hope and
happiness, he found himself in blue breeches, roundabout, and black cap,
on board a brig--bound for New Orleans. A volunteer for the war! It was
too late to repent then; the brig was ploughing her way through the
foaming billows, and in a few weeks she arrived at Mobile, as she could
not reach New Orleans, the British under General Packenham being off the
Balize. So the volunteers were landed at Mobile, and hurried on over
land to the devoted (or was to be) Crescent city. Peter Houp was not
only a good man, liable as all men are to make a false step once in
life, but a brave one. Having gone so far, and made a step so hard to
retrace, Peter's cool reason got bothered; he poured the spirits down to
keep his spirits up, as the saying goes, and abandoned himself to fate.
Caring neither for life nor death, he was found behind the cotton bags,
which he had assisted in getting down from the city to the battle
ground, piled up, and now ready to defend his country while life lasted.
Peter fought well, being a man not unlike the brave Old Hickory himself,
tall, firm, and resolute-looking. He attracted General Jackson's
attention during the battle, and afterwards was personally complimented
for his skill and courage by the victorious Commander-in-chief. Every
body knows the history of the battle of New Orleans--I need not relate
it. After the victory, the soldiers were allowed considerable license,
and they made New Orleans a scene of revel and dissipation, as all
cities are likely to represent when near a victorious army. Peter Houp
was on a "regular bender," a "big tare," a long spree--and for one so
unlike any thing of the kind, he went it with a _perfect looseness_.
A rich citizen's house was robbed--burglariously entered and robbed; and
Peter Houp, the staid, plain Philadelphia carpenter, who would not have
bartered his reputation for all the ingots of the Incas, while in his
sober senses, was arrested as one of the burglars, and the imputation,
false or true, caused him to spend seven years in a penitentiary. O,
what an awful probation of sorrow and mental agony were those seven long
years! But they passed over, and Peter Houp was again free, not a worse
man, fortunately, but a much wiser one! He had not seen or heard a word
of those so long dearly cherished, and cruelly deserted--his family--for
eight years, and his heart yearned towards them so strongly that,
pennyless, pale and care-worn as he was, he would have started
immediately for home, but being a good carpenter, and wages high, he
concluded to go to work, while he patiently awaited a reply of his
abandoned family to his long and penitent written letter. Weeks, months,
and a year passed, and no reply came, though another letter was
dispatched, for fear of the miscarriage of the first; (and both letters
did miscarry, as the wife never received them.) Peter gave himself up as
a lost man, his family lost or scattered, and nothing but death could
end his detailed wretchedness. But still, as fortune would have it, he
never again sought refuge from his sorrows in the poisoned chalice, the
rum glass; not he. Peter toiled, saved his money, and at the end of four
years found himself in the possession of a snug little sum of hard
cash, and a fully established good name. But all of this time he had
heard not a syllable of his home; and all of a sudden, one fine day in
early spring, he took passage in a ship, arrived in Philadelphia; and in
a few rods from the wharf, upon which he landed, he met an old neighbor.
The astonishment of the latter seemed wondrous; he burst out--
"My God! is this Peter Houp, come from his grave?"
"No," said Peter, in his slow, dry way, "I'm from New Orleans."
Peter soon learned that his wife and children yet lived in the same
place, and long mourned him as forever gone. Peter Houp felt any thing
but merry, but he was determined to have his joke and a merry meeting.
In an hour or two Peter Houp, the long lost wanderer, stood in his own
door.
"Well, Nancy, _here is thy leg of mutton!_" and a fine one too he had.
The most excellent woman was alone. She was of Quaker origin; sober and
stoical as her husband, she regarded him wistfully as he stood in the
door, for a long time; at last she spoke--
"Well, Peter, thee's been gone a _long time for it_."
The next moment found them locked in each other's arms; overtasked
nature could stand no more, and they both cried like children.
The carpenter has once held offices of public trust, and lives yet, I
believe, an old and highly respected citizen of "Brotherly Love."
A Chapter on Misers.
We all love, worship and adore that everlasting deity--_money_. The poor
feel its want, the rich know its power. Virtue falls before its
corrupting and seductive influence. Honor is tainted by it. Pride, pomp
and power, are but the creatures of money, and which corrupt hearts and
enslaved souls wield to the great annoyance--yea, curse of mankind in
general.
It is well, that, though we are all fond of money, not over one in a
thousand, prove miserable misers, and go on to amass dollar upon dollar,
until the shining heaps of garnered gold and silver become a god, and a
faith, that the rich wretch worships with the tenacious devotion of the
most frenzied fanatic. In the accumulation of a competency, against the
odds and chances of advanced life, a man may be pardoned for a degree of
economical prudence; but for parsimonious meanness, there is certainly
no excuse. I have heard my father speak of an old miserly fellow, who
owned a great many blocks of buildings in Philadelphia, as well as many
excellent farms around there, and who, though rich as a Jew (worth
$200,000), was so despicably and scandalously mean, as to go through the
markets and beg bones of the butchers, to make himself and family soup
for their dinners! He resorted to a score of similar humiliating
"dodges," whereby to prolong his miserable existence, and add dime and
dollar to his already bursting coffers.
At length, Death knocked at his door. The debt was one the poor wretch
would fain have gotten a little more time on, but the Court of Death
brooks no delay--there is no cunning devise of learned counsel, no writs
of error, by which even a miserable miser, or voluptuous millionaire,
can gain a moment's delay when death issues his summons. The miser was
called for, and he knew his time had come. He sent for the undertaker,
he bargained for his burial--
"They say I'm rich! it's a lie, sir--I'm poor, miserably poor. I want
but three carriages. My children may want a dozen--I say but _three_;
put that down. A very plain coffin; pine, stained will do, and no
ornaments, hark ye. A cheap grave. I would be buried on one of my farms,
but then the coach-drivers would charge so much to carry me out! Now,
what will you ask for the job?"
"About thirty dollars, sir," said the almost horrified undertaker.
"Thirty dollars! why, do you want to rob me? Say fifteen dollars--give
me a receipt--_and I'll pay you the cash down!_"
Poor wretch! by the time he had uttered this, his soul had flown to its
resting-place in another world.
In the upper part of Boston, on what is called "the Neck," there lived,
some years ago, a wealthy old man, who resorted to sundry curious
methods to live without cost to himself. His house--one of the
handsomest mansions in the "South End," in its day--stood near the road
over which the gardeners, in times past, used to go to market, with
their loads of vegetables, two days of each week. Old Gripes would be up
before day, and on the lookout for these wagons.
"Halloo! what have you got there?" says the miser to the countryman.
"Well, daddy, a little of all sorts; potatoes, cabbages, turnips,
parsnips, and so on. Won't you look at 'em?"
At this, the old miser would begin to fumble over the vegetables, pocket
a potato, an onion, turnip, or--
"Ah, yes, they are good enough, but we poor creatures can't afford to
pay such prices as you ask; no, no--we must wait until they come down."
The old miser would sneak into the house with his stolen vegetables, and
the farmer would drive on. Then back would come the miser, and lay in
ambush for another load, and thus, in course of a few hours, he would
raise enough vegetables to give his household a dinner. Another "dodge"
of this artful old dodger, was to take all the coppers he got (and, of
course, a poor creature like him handled a great many), and then go
abroad among the stores and trade off six for a fourpence, and when he
had four fourpences, get a quarter of a dollar for them, and thus in
getting a dollar, he made four per cent., by several hours' disgusting
meanness and labor.
But one day the old miser ran foul of a snag. A market-man had watched
him for some time purloining his vegetables, and on the first of the
year, sent in a bill of several dollars, for turnips, potatoes,
parsnips, &c. The old miser, of course, refused to pay the bill, denying
ever having had "the goods." But the countryman called, in _propria
persona_, refreshed his memory, and added, that, if the bill was not
footed on sight, he should prosecute him for _stealing!_ This made the
old miser shake in his boots. He blustered for awhile; then reasoned the
case; then plead poverty. But the purveyor in vegetables was not the man
to be cabbaged in that way, and the old miser called him into his
sitting-room, and ordered his son, a wild young scamp, to go up stairs
and see if he could find five dollars in any of the drawers or boxes up
there. The young man finally called out--
"Dad, which bag shall I take it out of, _the gold or silver_?"
"Odd zounds!" bawled the old man--"the boy wants to let on I've got bags
of gold and silver!"
And so he had, many thousands of dollars in good gold and silver; he
hobbled up stairs, got nine half dollars, and tried to get off fifty
cents less than the countryman's bill; but the countryman was stubborn
as a mule, and would not abate a farthing--so the old miser had to
hobble up stairs and fetch down his fifty cents more, and the whole
operation was like squeezing bear's grease from a pig's tail, or jerking
out eye-teeth.
The miser never waylaid the market-men again; and not long after this,
he got a spurious dollar put upon him in one of his "exchanging"
operations, and that wound up his penny shaving.
Time passed--Death called upon the wretched man of ingots and money
bags,--but while power remained to forbid it, the old miser refused to
have a physician. When, to all appearance, his senses were gone, his
friends drew the miser's pantaloons from under his pillow, where he had
always insisted on their remaining during his sleeping hours, and his
last illness--but as one of the attendants slowly removed the garment,
the poor old man, with a convulsive effort--a galvanic-like grab--threw
out his bony, cold hand, and seized his old pantaloons!
The miser clutched them with a dying grasp; words struggled in his
throat; he could not utter them; his jaw fell--he was dead!
Much curiosity was manifested by the friends and relatives to know what
could have caused the poor old man to cling to his time-worn pantaloons;
but the mystery was soon revealed--for upon examination of the linings
of the waistbands and watch-fob, over $30,000 in bank notes were there
concealed!
The Lord's pardon and human sympathy be with all such misguided and
wretched slaves of--money, say we.
Dog Day.
I used to like dogs--a puppy love that I got bravely over, since once
upon a time, when a Dutch _bottier_, in the city of Charleston, S. C.,
put an end to my poor _Sue_,--the prettiest and most devoted female bull
terrier specimen of the canine race you ever did see, I guess. My _Sue_
got into the wrong pew, one morning; the crout-eating cordwainer and she
had a dispute--he, the bullet-headed ball of wax, ups with his revolver,
and--I was dogless! I don't think dogs a very profitable investment, and
every man weak enough to keep a dog in a city, ought to pay for the
luxury handsomely--to the city authorities. Some people have a great
weakness for dogs. Some fancy gentlemen seem to think it the very apex
of highcockalorumdom to have the skeleton of a greyhound and highly
polished collar--following them through crowded thorough-fares. Some
young ladies, especially those of doubtful ages, delight in caressing
lumps of white, cotton-looking dumpy dogs and toting them around, to the
disgust of the lookers-on--with all the fondness and blind infatuation
of a mamma with her first born, bran new baby. Wherever you see any
quantity of white and black _loafers_--Philadelphia, for instance,
you'll see rafts of ugly and wretched looking curs. Boz says poverty and
oysters have a great affinity; in this country, for oysters read _dogs_.
Who has not, that ever travelled over this remarkable country, had
occasion to be down on dogs? Who that has ever lain awake, for hours at
a stretch, listening to a blasted cur, not worth to any body the powder
that would blow him up--but has felt a desire to advocate the dog-law,
so judiciously practised in all well-regulated cities? Who that ever
had a sneaking villanous cur slip up behind and _nip_ out a patch of
your trowsers, boot top and calf--the size of an oyster, but has felt
for the pistol, knife or club, and sworn eternal enmity to the whole
canine race? Who that ever had a big dog jump upon your Russia-ducks and
patent leathers--just as he had come out of a mud-puddle, but has nearly
forfeited his title to Christianity, by cursing aloud in his grief--like
a trooper? Well, I have, for one of a thousand.
The fact of the business is, with precious few exceptions, dogs are a
nuisance, whatever Col. Bill Porter of the "Spirit," and his thousand
and one dog-fancying and inquiring friends, may think to the contrary;
and the man that will invest fifty real dollars in a dog-skin, has got a
tender place in his head, not healed up as it ought to be.
While "putting up," t'other day, at the Irving House, New York, I heard
a good dog story that will bear repeating, I think. A sporting gent from
the country, stopping at the Irving, wanted a dog, a good dog, not
particular whether it was a spaniel, hound, pointer, English terrier or
Butcher's bull. So a friend advised him to put an advertisement in the
Sun and Spirit of the Times, which he did, requesting the "fancy" to
bring along the right sort of dog to the Irving House, room number --.
The advertisement appeared simultaneously in the two papers on Saturday.
There were but few calls that day; but on Monday, the "Spirit" having
been freely imbibed by its numerous readers over Sunday, the dog men
were awake, and then began the scene. The occupant of room number --had
scarcely got up, before a servant appeared with a man and a dog.
"Believe, sir, you advertised for a dog?" quoth he with the animal.
"Yes," was the response of the country fancy man, who, by the way, it
must be premised, was rather green as to the quality and prices of fancy
dogs.
"What kind of a dog do you call that?" he added.
"A greyhound, full blooded, sir."
"Full blooded?" says the country sportsman. "Well, he don't look as
though he had much blood in him. He'd look better, wouldn't he, mister,
if he was full bellied--looks as hollow as a flute!"
This remark, for a moment, rather staggered the dog man, who first
looked at his dog and then at the critic. Choking down his dander, or
disgust, says he:
"That's the best greyhound you ever saw, sir."
"Well, what do you ask for him?"
"Seventy-five dollars."
"What? Seventy-five dollars for that dog frame?"
"I guess you're a fool any way," says the dog man: "you don't know a
hound from a tan yard cur, you jackass! Phe-e-wt! come along, Jerry!"
and the man and dog disappeared.
The man with the hollow dog had not stepped out two minutes, before the
servant appeared with two more dog merchants; both had their specimens
along, and were invited to "step in."
"Ah! that's a dog!" ejaculated the country sportsman, the moment his
eyes lit upon the massive proportions of a thundering edition of Mt. St.
Bernard.
"That _is_ a dog, sir," was the emphatic response of the dog merchant.
"How much do you ask for that dog?" quoth the sportsman.
"Well," says the trader, patting his dog, "I thought of getting about
fifty-five dollars for him, but I--"
"Stop," interrupted the country sportsman, "that's enough--he won't
suit, no how; I can't go them figures on dogs." The man and dog left
growling, and the next man and dog were brought up.
"Why, that's a queer dog, mister, ain't it? 'Tain't got no hair on it;
why, where in blazes did you raise such a dog as that; been scalded,
hain't it?" says the rural sportsman, examining the critter.
"Scalded?" echoed the dog man, looking no ways amiable at the speaker,
"why didn't you never see a Chinese terrier, afore?"
"No, and if that's one, I don't care about seeing another. Why, he looks
like a singed possum?"
"Well, you're a pooty looking country jake, you are, to advertise for a
_dog_, and don't know Chiney terrier from a singed possum?"
Another rap at the door announced more dogs, and as the man opened it to
get out with his singed possum, a genus who evidently "killed for
Keyser," rushed in with a pair of the
ugliest-looking--savage--snub-nosed, slaughter-house pups, "the fancy"
might ever hope to look upon! As these meat-axish canines made a rush at
the very boot tops of the country sportsman, he "shied off," pretty
perceptibly.
"Are you de man advertised for de dogs, sa-a-ay? You needn't be afraid
o' dem; come a'here, lay da-own, Balty--day's de dogs, mister, vot you
read of!"
"Ain't they rather fierce?" asked the rural sportsman, eyeing the ugly
brutes.
"Fierce? Better believe dey are--show 'em a f-f-ight, if you want to see
'em go in for de chances! You want to see der teeth?"
"No, I guess not," timidly responded the sportsman; "they are not
exactly what I want," he continued.
"What," says Jakey, "don't want 'em? Why, look a'here, you don't go for
to say dat you 'spect I'm agoin' for to fetch d-dogs clean down here,
for nuthin', do you, sa-a-ay? Cos if you do, I'll jis drop off my duds
and lam ye out o' yer boots!"
Jakey was just beginning to square, when his belligerent propositions
were suddenly nipped in the bud, by the servant opening the door and
ushering in more dogs; and no sooner did Jakey's pups see the
new-comers, than they went in; a fight ensued--both of Jakey's pups
lighting down on an able-bodied, big-bone sorrel dog, who appeared
perfectly happy in the transaction, and having a tremendous jaw of his
own, made the bones of the pups crack with the high pressure he gave
them. Of course a dog fight is the _cue_ for a man fight, and in the wag
of a dead lamb's tail, Jakey and the proprietor of the sorrel dog had a
dispute. Jakey was attitudinizing _a la_ "the fancy," when the sorrel
dog man--who, like his dog, was got up on a liberal scale of strength
and proportions--walked right into Jakey's calculations, and whirled him
in double flip-flaps on to the wash-stand of the rural sportsman's room!
Our sporting friend viewed the various combatants more in bodily fear
than otherwise, and was making a break for the door, to clear himself,
when, to his horror and amazement, he found the entry beset by sundry
men and boys, and any quantity of dogs--dogs of every hue, size, and
description. At that moment the chawed-up pups of Jakey, and their
equally used-up master, came a rushing down stairs--another fight ensued
on the stairs between Jakey's dogs and some others, and then a stampede
of dogs--mixing up of dogs--tangling of ropes and straps--cursing and
hurraing, and such a time generally, as is far better imagined than
described. The boarders hearing such a wild outcry--to say nothing of
the yelps of dogs, came out of their various rooms, and retired as
quickly, to escape the stray and confused dogs, that now were ki-yi-ing,
yelping, and pitching all over the house! By judicious marshalling of
the servants--broom-sticks, rolling-pins and canes, the dogs and their
various proprietors were ejected, and order once more restored; the
country sportsman seized his valise, paid his bills and "vamosed the
ranche," and ever after it was incorporated in the rules of the Irving,
that gentlemen are strictly prohibited from dealing in dogs while
"putting up" in that house.
Amateur Gardening.
"I don't see what in sin's become of them dahlias I set out this
Spring," said Tapehorn, a retired slop-shop merchant, to his wife, one
morning a month ago, as he hunted in vain among the weeds and grass of
his garden, to see where or when his two-dollars-a-piece dahlia roots
were going to appear.
"Can't think what's the matter with 'em," he continued. "Goldblossom
said they were the finest roots he ever sold--ought to be up and in
bloom--two months ago."
"Oh, pa, I forgot to tell you," said Miss Tapehorn, "that our Patrick,
one morning last Spring, was digging in the garden there, and he turned
up some things that looked just like sweet potatoes; mother and I looked
at them, and thought they were potatoes those Mackintoshes had left
undug when they moved away last winter!"
"Well, you-a--" gasped Tapehorn.
"Well, pa, ma and I had them all dug up and cooked, and they were the
meanest tasting things we ever knew, and we gave them all to the pigs!"
Tapehorn looked like a man in the last stages of disgust, and jamming
his fists down into his pockets, he walked into the house, muttering:
"Tut, tut, tut!--thirty-two dollars and the finest lot of dahlias in the
world--_gone to the pigs!_"
The Two Johns at the Tremont.
It is somewhat curious that more embarrassments, and queer _contre
temps_ do not take place in the routine of human affairs, when we find
so _many_ persons floating about of one and the same name. It must be
shocking to be named John Brown, troublesome to be called John Thompson,
but who can begin to conceive the horrors of that man's situation, who
has at the baptismal font received the title of _John Smith_?
Now it only wants a slight accident, the most trivial occurrence of
fate--the meeting of two or three persons of the same name, or of great
similarity of name, to create the most singular and even ludicrous
circumstances and tableaux. One of these affairs came off at the Tremont
House, some time since. One Thomas Johns, a blue-nose Nova-Scotian--a
man of "some pumpkins" and "persimmons" at home, doubtless, put up for a
few days at the Tremont, and about the same time one John Thomas, a
genuine son of John Bull, just over in one of the steamers, took up his
quarters at the same respectable and worthy establishment.
Thomas Johns was a linen draper, sold silks, satinets, linen, and
dimities, at his establishment in the Provinces, and was also a
politician, and "went on" for the part of magistrate, occasionally. John
Thomas was a retired wine-merchant, and, having netted a bulky fortune,
he took it into his head to _travel_, and as naturally as he despised,
and as contemptuously as he looked upon this poor, wild, unsophisticated
country of ours, he nevertheless condescended to come and look at us.
Well, there they were, Thomas Johns, and John Thomas; one was "roomed"
in the north wing, the other in the south wing. Thomas Johns went out
and began reconnoitering among the Yankee shop-keepers. John Thomas,
having a fortnight's pair of sea legs on, and full of bile and beer,
laid up at his lodgings, and passed the first three days in "hazing
around" the servants, and blaspheming American manners and customs.
Old John was quietly snoring off his bottle after a sumptuous Tremont
dinner, when a repeated rap, rap, rap at his door aroused him.
"What are you--at?" growls John.
"It's ma, zur?" says one of the Milesian servants.
"Blast yer hies, what want yer?" again growls John.
"If ye plaze, zur, there's a young man below wishes to see you," says
the servant.
"Ha, tell 'im to clear out!" John having predestinated the "young man,"
he gave an apoplectic snort, relapsed into his lethargy, and the servant
whirled down into the rotunda, and informed the "young man" what the
gentleman desired.
"He did, eh?" says the young man, who looked as if he might be a clerk
in an importing house. The young man left, in something of a high
dudgeon.
"What'r yer at now?" roared John Thomas, a second time, roused by the
servant's rat-tat-too.
"It's a gentleman wants to see yez's, zur."
"Tell him to go to the d--!" and John snored again.
"Is John in?" asks the gentleman, as the servant returns.
"Mister _Thomas_ did yez mane, zur?"
"No, yes, it is (looking at his tablets) same thing, I suppose; Thomas
Johns," says the gentleman.
"I belave it's right, zur," says the servant.
"Well, what did he say?"
"Faith, I think he's not in a good humor, betwane us, zur; he says yez
may go to the divil!"
"Did he? Well, that's polite, any how--invite a gentleman to dine with
him, and then meet him with such language as that. The infernal 'blue
nose,' I'll pull it, I'll tweak it until he'll roar like a calf!" and
off went "the gentleman," hot as No. 6.
"I belave he's not in, zur," says the same servant, answering another
inquiry for John Thomas, or Thomas Johns, the carriage driver was not
certain which.
"Oh, ho!" says the servant, "it's a ride ould John's going fur to take
till himself, and didn't want any callers." Reaching John's door, he
began his tattoo.
"Be hang'd to ye, what'r ye at now?" growls John, partly up and dressed.
"The carriage is here, zur."
"What carriage is that?" growls John, continuing his toilet.
"I don't know, zur; I'll go down and sae the _number_, if ye plaze."
"Thunder and tommy! What do I care for the number? Go tell the
carriage----"
"To go to the divil, zur?" says the servant, in anticipation of the
command.
"No, you bog-trotter, go tell the carriage to wait."