"Not much--that's a fact."
"I 'spect there's a good deal of humbug about the Californy goold mines,
don't you?"
"The wealth of the country or the ease of coming at it," said the
storekeeper, "is no doubt exaggerated some."
"That's my opinion on't too," said the agriculturist. "Some make money
out there, and then agin some don't; I reckon more don't than does." To
this bright inference the storekeeper ventured to say--
"I think it's highly _probable_."
"All your folks are lively, eh?" inquired Smallpotatoes.
"Pretty much so," said the storekeeper; "troubled a little with
influenza, colds, &c.; nothing serious, however."
"Well, I'm glad to hear it."
"All your folks are well, I believe you said?" the storekeeper, in
apparent solicitude, inquired, to be reassured of the fact.
"Ye-e-e-s, exceptin' the old lady."
Another pause; we began to feel convinced there was speculation in the
rural gent's "eyes," and just for the fun of the thing--as we "were up"
to such dodges--we determined to hang on and see how he come out.
"Well, I declare, I must be goin'!" suddenly said the rural gent, and
actually made five steps towards the handle of the door.
"Don't be in a hurry," echoed the storekeeper. "When did you come in
town?"
"I come in this mornin'."
"Any of the folks in with you?"
"No; my wife did want to come in, but concluded it was too cold;
'spected some of your folks out to see us durin' this good
sleighing--why didn't you come?"
"Couldn't very well spare time," said the storekeeper.
"Well, we'd been glad to see you, and if you get time, and the sleighin'
holds out, you must come and see us."
"I may--I can't promise for certain."
Now another pause took place, and thinks we--the climax has come,
surely, after all that small talk. The country gent walked deliberately
to the door; he actually took hold of the knob.
"You off?" says the storekeeper.
"B'lieve I'll be off"--opening the door, then rushes back
again--semi-excited by the force of some pent up idea, says the rural
gent--"O! Mr. ----, _don't you want to buy some good fresh eggs_?"
"Eggs? Yes, I do; been looking all around for some fresh eggs; how many
have you?"
"Five dozen; thought you'd want some; so I come right in to see!"
We nearly catapillered! After all this circumlocution, the man came to
the _pint_, and--sold his eggs in two minutes!
Jolly Old Times.
Either mankind or his constitution has changed since "the good old
times," for we read in an old medicine book, that bleeding at the nose,
and cramp, could be effectually prevented by wearing a dried toad in a
bag at the pit of the stomach; while for rheumatism and consumption, a
snake skin worn in the crown of your hat, was a sovereign remedy! Dried
toads and snake skins are quite out of use around these settlements, and
we think the Esculapius who would recommend such nostrums, would be
looked upon as a poor devil with a fissure in his cranium, liable to
cause his brains to become weather-beaten! We remember hearing of a
learned old cuffy, who lived down "dar" near Tallahassee, who invariably
recommended cayenne pepper in the eye to cure the toothache! Had this
venerable old colored gem'n lived 200 years ago, he would doubtless have
created a sensation in the medical circles!
The Pigeon Express Man.
In nearly all yarns or plays in which Yankees figure, they are supposed
to be "a leetle teu darn'd ceute" for almost any body else, creating a
heap of fun, and coming out clean ahead; but that even Connecticut
Yankees--the cutest and all firedest _tight_ critters on the face of the
_yearth_, when money or trade's in the question--are "_done_" now and
then, upon the most scientific principles, we are going to prove.
It is generally known, in the newspaper world, that two or three Eastern
men, a few years ago, started a paper in Philadelphia, upon the penny
principle, and have since been rewarded as they deserved. They were, and
are, men of great enterprise and liberality, as far as their business is
concerned, and thereby they got ahead of all competition, and made their
_pile_. The proprietors were always "fly" for any new dodge, by which
they could keep the lead of things, and monopolize the _news_ market.
The Telegraph had not "turned up" in the day of which we write--the
_mails_, and, now and then, express horse lines, were the media through
which _Great Excitements! Alarming Events!! Great Fires and Awful
Calamities!!_ were come at. One morning, as one of these gentlemen was
sitting in his office, a long, lank genius, with a visage as
hatchet-faced and keen as any Connecticut Yankee's on record, came in,
and inquired of one of the clerks for the proprietors of that
institution. Being pointed out, the thin man made a _lean_ towards him.
After getting close up, and twisting and screwing around his head to see
that nobody was listening or looking, the lean man sat down very
gingerly upon the extreme verge of a chair, and leaning forward until
his razor-made nose almost touched that of the publisher, in a low,
nasal, anxious tone, says he,
"Air yeou one of the publishers of this paper?"
"I am, sir."
"Oh, yeou, sir!" said the visitor, again looking suspiciously around and
about him.
"Did you ever hear tell of the _Pigeon Express_?" he continued.
"The Pigeon Express?" echoed the publisher.
"Ya-a-s. Carrier pigeons--letters to their l-e-g-s and newspapers under
their wings--trained to fly any where you warnt 'em."
"Carrier Pigeons," mused the publisher--"Carrier--pigeons trained to
carry billets--bulletins and--"
"Go frum fifty to a hundred miles an hour!" chimed in the stranger.
"True, so they say, very true," continued the publisher, musingly.
"Elegant things for gettin' or sendin' noos head of every body else."
"Precisely: that's a fact, that's a fact," the other responded, rising
from his chair and pacing the floor, as though rather and decidedly
_taken_ by the novelty and feasibility of the operation.
"You'd have 'em all, Mister, dead as mutton, by a Pigeon Express."
"I like the idea; good, first rate!"
"Can't be beat, noheow!" said the stranger.
"But what would it cost?"
"Two hundred dollars, and a small wagon, to begin on."
"A small wagon?"
"Ya-a-s. Yeou see, Mister, the birds haff to be trained to fly from one
_pint_ to another!"
"Yes; well?"
"Wa-a-ll, yeou see the birds are put in a box, on the top of the
bildin', for a spell, teu git the _hang_ of things, and so on!"
"Yes, very well; go on."
"Then the birds are put in a cage, the trainer takes 'em into his
wagon--ten miles at first--throws 'em up, and the birds go to the
bildin'. Next day fifteen miles, and so forth; yeou see?"
"Perfectly; I understand; now, where can these birds be had?"
Putting his thin lips close to the publisher's opening ears, in a low,
long way, says the stranger--
"_I've got 'em!_ R-a-l-e Persian birds--be-e-utis!"
"You understand training them?" says the anxious publisher.
"_Like a book_," the stranger responded.
"Where are the birds?" the publisher inquired.
"I've got 'em down to the tavern, where I'm stoppin'."
"Bring them up; let me see them; let me see them!"
"Certainly, Mister, of course," responded the Pigeon express man,
leaving the presence of the tickled-to-death publisher, who paced his
office as full of effervescence as a jimmyjohn of spruce beer in dog
days.
About this time pigeons were being trained, and in a few cases, now and
then, really did carry messages for lottery ticket venders in Jersey
City, to Philadelphia, Wilmington, and Baltimore; but these exploits
rarely paid first cost, and did not amount to much, although some noise
was made about the wonderful performance of certain Carrier Pigeons. But
the _paper_ was to have a new impulse--astonish all creation and the
rest of mankind, by Pigeon Express. The publisher's partner was in New
York, fishing for novelties, and he determined to astonish him, on his
return home, by the _bird business!_ A coop was fixed on the top of the
"bildin'," as the great inventor of the express had suggested. The
wagon was bought, and, with two hundred dollars in for funds, passed
over to the pigeon express man, who, in the course of a few days, takes
the birds into his wagon, to take them out some few miles, throw them
up, and the publisher and a confidential friend were to be on top of the
"bildin'," looking out for them.
They kept looking!--they saw something werry like a whale, but a good
deal like a first-rate bad "_Sell!_" The lapse of a few days was quite
sufficient to convince the publisher that he had been taken in and done
for--regularly _picked up_ and done for,--upon the most approved and
scientific principles. Rather than let the cat out of the bag, he made
up his mind to pocket the _shave_ and keep shady, not even "letting on
to his partner," who in the course of the following week returned from
Gotham, evidently feeling as fine as silk, about something or other.
"Well, what's new in New York--got hold of any thing rich?" was the
first interrogatory.
"Hi-i-i-sh! close the door!" was the reply, indicating something very
important on the _tapis_.
"So; my dear fellow, I've got a concern, now, that will put the
sixpennies to sleep as sound as rocks!"
"No. What have you started in Gotham?"
"Exactly. If you don't own up the corn, that the idea is
grand--immense--I'll knock under."
"Good! I'm glad--particularly glad you've found something new and
startling," responded the other. "Well, what is it?"
"Great!--wonderful!--_Carrier Pigeons!_"
"What! Pigeons?"
"_Pigeons!_"
"You don't pretend to say that--"
"Yes, sir, all arranged--luckiest fellows alive, we are--"
"Well, but--"
"Oh, don't be uneasy--I fixed it."
"Well, I'm hanged if this isn't rich!" muttered his partner, sticking
his digits into his trowserloons--biting his lips and stamping around.
"Rich! _elegant!_ In two weeks we'll be flying our birds and--"
"Flying! Why, do you--"
"Ha! ha! I knew I'd astonish you; Tom insisted on my keeping perfectly
_mum_, until things were in regular working order; he then set the boys
to work--we have large cages on top of the building--"
"Come up on top of this building," said the partner, solemnly. "There,
do you see that bundle of laths and stuff?"
"Why--why, you don't pretend to say that--"
"I do exactly; a scamp came along here a week ago--talked nothing but
Carrier Pigeons--Pigeon Expresses--I thought I'd surprise you, and--"
"Well, well--go on."
"And by thunder I was green enough to give the fellow $200--a horse and
wagon--"
"Done! _done!_" roared the other, without waiting for further
particulars--"$200 and a horse and wagon--just what Tom and I gave the
scamp! ha! ha! ha!"
"Haw! haw! haw!" and the publishers roared under the force of the
_joke_.
Whatever became of the pigeon express man is not distinctly known; but
he is supposed to have given up the bird business, and gone into the
manufacture of woolly horses and cod-liver oil.
Jipson's Great Dinner Party.
"Well, you must do it."
"Do it?"
"Do it, sir," reiterated the lady of Jipson, a man well enough to _do_
in the world, chief clerk of a "sugar baker," and receiving his twenty
hundred dollars a year, with no perquisites, however, and--plenty of New
Hampshire contingencies, (to quote our beloved man of the million,
Theodore Parker,) poor relations.
"But, my dear Betsey, do you _know_, will you consider for once, that to
_do_ a thing of the kind--to splurge out like Tannersoil, one must
expect--at least I do--to sink a full _quarter_ of my salary, for the
current year; yes, a full quarter?"
"Oh! very well, if you are going to live up here" (Jipson had just moved
up above "Bleecker street,")--"and bought your carriage, and
engaged----"
"Two extra servant girls," chimed in Jipson.
"And a groom, sir," continued Mrs. J.
"And gone into at least six hundred to eight hundred dollars a year
extra expenses, to--a----"
"To gratify yourself, and--a----"
"Your--a--a--your vanity, Madam, you should have said, my dear."
"Don't talk that way to me--to me--you brute; you know----"
"I know all about it, my dear."
"_My dear_--bah!" said the lady; "my _dear!_ save that, Mr. Jipson, for
some of your--a--a----"
What Mrs. J. might have said, we scarce could judge; but Jipson just
then put in a "rejoinder" calculated to prevent the umpullaceous tone of
Mrs. J.'s remarks, by saying, in a very humble strain--
"Mrs. Jipson, don't make an ass of yourself: we are too old to act like
goslings, and too well acquainted, I hope, with the matters-of-fact of
every-day life, to quarrel about things beyond our reach or control."
"If you talk of things beyond your control, Mr. Jipson, I mean beyond
your reach, that your income will not permit us to live as other people
live----"
"I wouldn't like to," interposed Jipson.
"What?" asked Mrs. Jipson.
"Live like other people--that is, some people, Mrs. Jipson, that I know
of."
"You don't suppose _I'm_ going to bury myself and my poor girls in this
big house, and have those servants standing about me, their fingers in
their mouths, with nothing to do but----"
"But what?"
"But cook, and worry, and slave, and keep shut up for a----"
"For what?"
"For a--a----"
But Mrs. J. was stuck. Jipson saw that; he divined what a _point_ Mrs.
J. was about to, but could not conscientiously make, so he relieved her
with--
"My dear Betsey, it's a popular fallacy, an exploded idea, a
contemptible humbug, to live merely for your neighbors, the rabble world
at large. Thousands do it, my dear, and I've no objection to their doing
it; it's their own business, and none of mine. I have moved up town
because I thought it would be more pleasant; I bought a modest kind of
family carriage because I could afford it, and believed it would add to
our recreations and health; the carriage and horses required care; I
engaged a man to attend to them, fix up the garden, and be useful
generally, and added a girl or two to your domestic departments, in
order to lighten your own cares, &c. Now, all this, my dear woman, you
ought to know, rests a very important responsibility upon my shoulders,
health, life, and--two thousand dollars a year, and if you imagine it
compatible with common sense, or consonant with my judgment, to make an
ass or fool of myself, by going into the extravagances and tom-fooleries
of Tannersoil, our neighbor over the way, who happens for the time to be
'under government,' with a salary of nothing to speak of, but with
stealings equal to those of a successful freebooter, you--you--you have
placed a--a bad estimate upon my common sense, Madam."
With this flaring burst of eloquence, Jipson seized his hat, gloves and
cane, and soon might be seen an elderly, natty, well-shaved,
slightly-flushed gentleman taking his seat in a down town bound _bus_,
en route for the sugar bakery of the firm of Cutt, Comeagain, & Co. It
was evident, however, from the frequency with which Jipson plied his
knife and rubber to his "figgers" of the day's accounts, and the
tremulousness with which he drove the porcupine quill, that Jipson was
thinking of something else!
"Mr. Jipson, I wish you'd square up that account of Look, Sharp, & Co.,
to-day," said Mr. Cutt, entering the counting room.
"All folly!" said Jipson, scratching out a mistake from his day-book,
and not heeding the remark, though he saw the person of his employer.
"Eh?" was the ejaculation of Cutt.
"All folly!"
"I don't understand you, sir!" said Cutt, in utter astonishment.
"Oh! I beg pardon, sir," said poor Jipson; "I beg pardon, sir. Engrossed
in a little affair of my own, I quite overlooked your observation. I
will attend to the account of Look, Sharp, & Co., at once, sir;" and
while Jipson was at it, his employer went out, wondering what in faith
could be the matter with Jipson, a man whose capacity and gentlemanly
deportment the firm had tested to their satisfaction for many years
previous. The little _incident_ was mentioned to the partner, Comeagain.
The firm first laughed, then wondered what was up to disturb the usual
equilibrium of Jipson, and ended by hoping he hadn't taken to drink or
nothing!
"Guess I'd better do it," soliloquizes Jipson. "My wife is a good woman
enough, but like most women, lets her vanity trip up her common sense,
now and then; she feels cut down to know that Tannersoil's folks are
plunging out with dinners and evening parties, troops of company, piano
going, and bawling away their new fol-de-rol music. Yes, guess I'll do
it.
"Mrs. Jipson little calculates the horrors--not only in a pecuniary, but
domestic sense--that these dinners, suppers and parties to the rag-tag
and bobtail, cost many honest-meaning people, who _ought_ to be ashamed
of them.
"But, I'll do it, if it costs me the whole quarter's salary!"
A few days were sufficient to concoct details and arrange the programme.
When Mrs. Jipson discovered, as she vainly supposed, the prevalence of
"better sense" on the part of her husband, she was good as cranberry
tart, and flew around in the best of humor, to hurry up the event that
was to give _eclat_ to the new residence and family of the Jipsons,
slightly dim the radiance or mushroom glory of the Tannersoil family,
and create a commotion generally--above Bleecker street!
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 Hampshire, 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 fashionable 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 aprons, 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 glasses.
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, rushing 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 snob," continues a swell.
"A what?" shouts Jipson.
"A plebeian!"
"A codfish--ah----"
"Villains! scoundrels! bla'guards!" shouts the outraged Jipson, rushing
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 fashion 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 shell-fish. The deacon had been disappointed several times
by assertions 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, lusty-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?"
"Truly, he can," quoth the deacon; "and Saul can go right along with
me."
The lobsters were dashed into a piece of Manilla sack, thrown across the
shoulders of the juvenile Saul, and away they went at the heels of the
deacon, to the depot; here Saul dashed down the "poor creturs" until
their bones or shells rattled most piteously, and as the deacon handed a
"three cent piece" to Saul, the long and wicked claw of one of the
lobsters protruded out of the bag--opened and shut with a _clack_, that
made the deacon shudder!
"Those fellows are plaguy awkward to handle, are they not, my son?" says
the deacon.
"Not _werry_," says the boy; "they can't bite, cos you see they's got
pegs down here--_hallo!_" As Saul poked his hand down towards the big
claw lying partly out of the open-mouthed bag, the claw opened, and
_clacked_ at his fingers, ferocious as a mad dog.
"His peg's out," said the boy--"and I can't fasten it; but here's a
chunk of twine; tie the bag and they can't get out, any how, and you
kin put 'em into yer pot right out of the bag."
"Yes, yes," says the deacon; "I guess I will take care of them; bring
them here; there, just place the bag right in under my seat; so, that
will do."
Presently the cars began to fill up, as the minute of departure
approached, and soon every seat around the worthy deacon was occupied.
By-and-by, "a middle-aged lady," in front of the deacon, began to
_fussle_ about and twist around, as if anxious to arrange the great
amplitude of her _drapery_, and look after something "bothering" her
feet. In front of the lady, sat a _slab_-sided _genus_ dandy, fat as a
match and quite as good looking; between his legs sat a pale-face dog,
with a flashing collar of brass and tinsel, quite as gaudy as his
master's neck-choker; this canine gave an awful--
"_Ihk!_ ow, yow! yow-oo--yow, ook! yow! _yow!_ YOW!"
"Lor' a massy!" cries the woman in front of the deacon, jumping up, and
making a desperate splurge to get up on to the seats, and in the effort
upsetting sundry bundles and parcels around her!
"Yow-_ook!_ Yow-_ook!_" yelled the dog, jumping clear out of the grasp
of the juvenile _Mantillini_, and dashing himself on to the head and
shoulders of the next seat occupants, one of whom was a sturdy civilized
Irishman, who made "no bones" in grasping the sickly-looking dog, and to
the horror and alarm of the entire female party present, he sung out:
"Whur-r-r ye about, ye brute! Is the divil _mad_?"
"Eee! Ee! O dear! O! O!" cries an anxious mother.
"O! O! O-o-o! save us from the dog!" cries another.
"Whur-r-r-r! ye _divil!_" cries the Irish gintilman, pinning the poor
dog down between the seats, with a force that extracted another glorious
yell.
"Ike! Ike! Ike! oo, ow! ow! Ike! Ike! Ike!"
"Murder! mur-r-r-der!" bawls another victim in the rear of the deacon,
leaping up in his seat, and rubbing his leg vigorously.
"What on airth's loose?" exclaims one.
"Halloo! what's that?" cries another, hastily vacating his seat and
crowding towards the door.
"O dear, O! O!" anxiously cries a delicate young lady.
"What? who? where?" screamed a dozen at once.
"Good _conscience!_" exclaims the deacon, as he dropped his newspaper,
in the midst of the din--noise and confusion; and with a most singular
and spasmodic effort to dance a "_high_land fling," he hustled out of
his seat, exclaiming:
"Good conscience, I really believe they're out."
"Eh? What--what's out?" cries one.
"Snakes!" echoes an old gentleman, grasping a cane.
"Snappin' turtles, Mister?" inquire several.
"Snakes!" cried a dozen.
"Snappers!" echoes a like quantity of the dismayed.
"Snapper-r-r-r-rs!"
"Snake-e-e-es!" O what a din!
"Halloo! here, what's all this? What's the matter?" says the conductor,
coming to the rescue.
"That man's got snakes in the car!" roar several at once.
"And snappin' turtles, too, consarn him!" says one, while all eyes were
directed, tongues wagging, and hands gesticulating furiously at the
astonished deacon.
"Take care of them! Take care of them! I believe I'm bitten clear
through my boot--catch them, Mr. Swallow!" cries the deacon.
"Swallow 'em, Mr. Catcher!" echoes the frightened dandy.
"What? where?" says the excited conductor, looking around.
"Here, here, in under these seats, sir,--_my lobsters, sir_," says the
deacon, standing aloof to let the conductor and the man with the cane
get at the _reptiles_, as the latter insisted.
"Darn 'em, are they only lobsters!"
"Pooh! Lobsters!" says young Mantillini, with a mock heroic shrug of his
shoulders, and looking fierce as two cents!
"Come out here!" says the conductor, feeling for them.
"Take care!" says the deacon, "the plaguy things have got their pins
out!"
"Why, they are _alive_, and crawling around; hear the old fellow,--take
care, Mr. Swaller--he's cross as sin!" says the man with the
cane--"wasn't that a _snap_? Take care! You got him?" that indefatigable
assistant continued, rattling his tongue and cane.
"I've got them!" cries the conductor.
"Put them in the bag, here, sir," says the deacon.
"Take them out of this car!" cries everybody.
"Plaguy things," says the deacon. "I sha'n't never buy another _live
lobster!_"
Order was restored, passengers took their seats, but when young
Mantillini looked for his dog, he had vamosed with the _Irishman_, at
"the last stopping place," in his excitement, leaving a quart jug of
whiskey in lieu of the dandy's dog.
The Fitzfaddles at Hull.
"Well, well, drum no more about it, for mercy's sake; if you must go,
you must _go_, that's all."
"Yes, just like you, Fitzfaddle"--pettishly reiterates the lady of the
middle-aged man of business; "mention any thing that would be gratifying
to the children--"
"The children--_umph!_"
"Yes, the children; only mention taking the dear, tied-up souls to,
to--to the Springs--"
"_Haven't_ they been to Saratoga? _Didn't_ I spend a month of my
precious time and a thousand of my precious dollars there, four years
ago, to be physicked, cheated, robbed, worried, starved, and--laughed
at?" Fitzfaddle responds.
"Or, to the sea-side--" continued the lady.
"Sea-side! good conscience!" exclaims Fitzfaddle; "my dear Sook--"
"Don't call me _Sook_, Fitzfaddle; _Sook!_ I'm not _in_ the kitchen, nor
_of_ the kitchen, you'll please remember, Fitzfaddle!" said the lady,
with evident feeling.
"O," echoed Fitz, "God bless me, Mrs. Fitzfaddle, don't be so rabid;
don't be foolish, in your old days; my dear, we've spent the happiest of
our days in the kitchen; when we were first married, _Susan_, when our
whole stock in trade consisted of five ricketty chairs--"
"Well, that's enough about it--" interposed the lady.
"A plain old pine breakfast table--" continued Fitz.
"I'd stop, just THERE--" scowlingly said Mrs. Fitz.
"My father's old chest, and your mother's old corner cupboard--"
persevered the indefatigable monster.
"I'd go through the whole inventory--" angrily cried Mrs. Fitz--"clean
down to--"
"The few broken pots, pans, and dishes we had--"
"Don't you--_don't you feel ashamed of yourself_?" exclaims Mrs. Fitz,
about as full of anger as she could well contain; but Fitz keeps the
even tenor of his way.
"Not at all, my dear; Heaven forbid that I should ever forget a jot of
the real happiness of any portion of my life. When you and I, dear Sook
(an awful scowl, and a sudden change of her position, on her costly
rocking chair. Fitz looked askance at Mrs. Fitz, and proceeded); when
you and I, _Susan_, lived in Dowdy's little eight by ten 'blue frame,'
down in Pigginsborough; not a yard of carpet, or piece of mahogany, or
silver, or silk, or satin, or flummery of any sort, the five old
chairs--"
"Good conscience! are you going to have that over again?" cries Mrs.
Fitz, with the utmost chagrin.
"The old white pine table--"
Mrs. Fitz starts in horror.
"My father's old chest, and your mother's old corner cupboard!"
Mrs. Fitz, in an agony, walks the floor!
"The few broken or cracked pots, pans and dishes, we had--"
Nature quite "gin eout"--the exhausted Mrs. Fitzfaddle throws herself
down upon the sumptuous _conversazione_, and absorbs her grief in the
ample folds of a lace-wrought handkerchief (bought at Warren's--cost the
entire profits of ten quintals of Fitzfaddle & Co.'s A No. 1 cod!),
while the imperturbable Fitz drives on--
"Your mother's old cooking stove, Susan--the time and again, Susan, I've
sat in that little kitchen--"
Mrs. Fitzfaddle shudders all over. Each reminiscence, so dear to
Fitzfaddle, seems a dagger to her.
"With little Nanny--"
"You--you brute! You--you vulgar--you--you Fitzfaddle. Nanny! to call
your daughter N-Nanny!"
"Nanny! why, yes, Nanny--" says the matter-of-fact head of the firm of
Fitzfaddle & Co. "I believe we did intend to call the girl Nancy; we
_did_ call her Nanny, Mrs. Fitzfaddle; but, like all the rest, by your
innovations, things have kept changing no better fast. I believe my soul
that girl has had five changes in her name before you concluded it was
up to the highest point of modern respectability. From Nancy you had it
Nannette, from Nannette to Ninna, from Ninna to Naomi, and finally it
was rested at Anna Antoinette De Orville Fitzfaddle! Such a mess of
nonsense to _handle_ my plain name."
"Anna Antoinette De Orville"--said Mrs. Fitz, suddenly rallying, "_is_ a
name, only made _plain_ by your ugly and countryfied prefix. De Orville
is a name," said the lady.
"I should like to know," said the old gentleman, "upon what pretext,
Mrs. Fitzfaddle, you lay claim to such a Frenchy and flighty name or
title as De Orville?"
"Wasn't it my family name, you brute?" cried Mrs. Fitz.
"Ho! ho! ho! Sook, Sook, _Sook_," says Fitzfaddle.
"_Sook!_" almost screams Mrs. Fitz.
"Yes, _Sook_, Sook _Scovill_, daughter of a good old-fashioned,
patriotic farmer--_Timothy Scovill_, of Tanner's Mills, in the county of
Tuggs--down East. And when I married Sook (Mrs. Fitz jumped up, a
rustling of silk is heard--a door slams, and the old gentleman finishes
his domestic narrative, _solus!_), she was as fine a gal as the State
ever produced. We were poor, and we knew it; wasn't discouraged or put
out, on the account of our poverty. We started in the world square;
happy as clams, nothing but what was useful around us; it is a happy
reflection to look back upon those old chairs, pine table, my father's
old chest, and Sook's mother's old corner cupboard--the cracked pots
and pans--the old stove--Sook as ruddy and bright as a full-blown rose,
as she bent over the hot stove in our parlor, dining room, and
kitchen--turning her slap-jacks, frying, baking and boiling, and I often
by her side, with our first child, Nanny, on my--"
"Well, I hope by this time you're over your vulgar Pigginsborough
recollections, Fitzfaddle!" exclaims Mrs. Fitz, re-entering the parlor.
"I was just concluding, my dear, the happy time when I sat and read to
you, or held Nanny, while you--"
"Fitzfaddle, for goodness' sake--"
"While you--ruddy and bright, my dear, as the full-blown rose, bent over
your mother's old cook stove--"
"Are you crazy, Fitz, or do you want to craze me?" cried the really
_tried_ woman.
"Turning your slap-jacks," continues Fitz, suiting the action to the
word.
"Fitzfaddle!" cries Mrs. Fitz, in the most sublimated paroxysm of pity
and indignation, but Fitz let it come.
"_While I dandled Nanny on my knee!_"
A pause ensues; Fitzfaddle, in contemplation of the past, and Mrs. Fitz
fortifying herself for the opening of a campaign to come. At length,
after a deal of "dicker," Fitz remembering only the bad dinners, small
rooms, large bills, sick, parboiled state of the children, clash and
clamor of his trips to the Springs, sea-side and mountain resorts; and
Mrs. Fitz dwelling over the strong opposition (show and extravagance)
she had run against the many ambitious shop-keepers' wives, tradesmen's,
lawyers' and doctors' daughters--Mrs. Fitz gained her point, and the
family,--Mrs. Fitz, the two now marriageable daughters--Anna Antoinette
De Orville, and Eugenia Heloise De Orville, and Alexander Montressor De
Orville, and two servants--start in style, for the famed city of Hull!
It was yet early in the season, and Fitzfaddle had secured, upon
accommodating terms, rooms &c., of Mrs. Fitzfaddle's own choosing. With
the diplomacy of five prime ministers, and with all the pride, pomp and
circumstance of a fine-looking woman of two-and-forty,--husband rich,
and indulgent at that; armed with two "marriageable daughters," you
may--if at all familiar with life at a "watering-place," fancy Mrs.
Fitzfaddle's feelings, and perhaps, also, about a third of the _swarth_
she cut. The first evident opposition Mrs. Fitz encountered, was from
the wife of a wine merchant. This lady made her _entree_ at ---- House,
with a pair of bays and "body servant," two poodles, and an immensity of
band boxes, patent leather trunks, and--her husband. The first day Mrs.
Oldport sat at table, her new style of dress, and her European jewels,
were the afternoon talk; but at tea, the Fitzfaddles _spread_, and Mrs.
Oldport was bedimmed, easy; the next day, however, "turned up" an
artist's wife and daughter, whose unique elegance of dress and
proficiency in music took down the entire collection! Mrs. Michael
Angelo Smythe and daughter captivated two of Mrs. Fitzfaddle's
"circle"--a young naval gent and a 'quasi Southern planter, much to her
chagrin and Fitzfaddle's pecuniary suffering; for next evening Mrs. F.
got up,--to get back her two recruits--a grand private _hop_, at a cost
of $130! And the close of the week brought such a cloud of beauty,
jewels, marriageable daughters and ambitious mothers, wives, &c., that
Mrs. Fitzfaddle got into such a worry with her diplomatic arrangements,
her competitions, stratagems,--her fuss, her jewels, silks, satins and
feathers, that a nervous-headache preceded a typhus fever, and the
unfortunate lady was forced to retire from the field of her glory at the
end of the third week, entirely prostrated; and poor Jonas Fitzfaddle
out of pocket--more or less--_five hundred dollars!_ The last we heard
of Fitzfaddle, he was apostrophizing the good old times when he rejoiced
in five old chairs--cook stove--slap-jacks, &c.!
Putting Me on a Platform!
Human nature doubtless has a great many weak points, and no few bipeds
have a great itching after notoriety and fame. Fame, I am credibly
informed, is not unlike a greased pig, always hard chased, but too
eternal slippery for every body to hold on to! I have never cared a
tinker's curse for glory myself; the satisfaction of getting quietly
along, while in pursuit of bread, comfort and knowledge, has sufficed to
engross my individual attention; but I've often "had my joke" by
observing the various grand dashes made by cords of folks, from snob to
nob, patrician to plebeian, in their gyrations to form a circle, in
which they might be the centre pin! This desire, or feeling, is a part
and parcel of human nature; you will observe it every where--among the
dusky and man-eating citizens of the Fejee Islands--the dog-eating
population of China--the beef-eaters of England, and their descendants,
ye _Yankoos_ of the new world; all, all have a tendency for lionization.
This very _innocent_ pastime finds a great many supporters, too;
toadyism is the main prop that sustains and exalteth the vain glory of
man; if you can only get a _toady_--the _more_ the better--you can the
sooner and firmer fix your digits upon the greased pig of fame; but as
thrift must always follow fawning, or toadyism, it is most essentially
necessary that you be possessed of a greater or lesser quantity of the
goods and chattels of this world, or some kind of tangible effects, to
grease the wheels of your emollient supporters; otherwise you will soon
find all your air-built castles, dignity and glory, dissolve into mere
gas, and your stern in the gravel immediately.
Such is the pursuit of glory, and such its supporters, their gas and
human weakness. I have said that I never sought distinction, but I have
had it thrust upon me more than once, and the last effort of the kind
was so particularly _salubrious_, that I must relate to you,
_confidentially_ of course, how it came about.
When I first came to Boston, as a matter of course, I spent much of my
time in surveying "the lions," dipping into this, and peeping into that;
promenading the Common and climbing the stupendous stairway of Bunker
Hill; ransacking the forts, islands, beautiful Auburn, &c., &c.
Finally, I went into the State House, but as this notable building was
undergoing some repairs, placards were tacked up about the doors,
prohibiting persons from strolling about the capitol. The attendant was
very polite, and told me, and several others desirous to see the
building inside, that if we called in the course of a few days, we could
be gratified, but for the present no one but those engaged about the
work, were allowed to enter. I persisted so closely in my desire to
examine the interior, while on the spot, that the man, when the rest of
the visitors had gone, relented, and I was not only allowed to see what
I should see, but he _toted_ me "round."
We sauntered into the Assembly Chamber, surveyed and learned all the
particulars of that, peered into the side-rooms, closets, &c., and then
came to the Senate Chamber. This you know is something finer than the
country meeting house, or circus-looking Assembly Chamber, where the
"fresh-men," or green members from Hard-Scrabble, Hull, Squantum,
etc.,--incipient Demostheneses, and sucking Ciceros, first tap their
gasometers "in the haouse." Here I found the venerable pictures of the
ancient _mugs_, who have figured as Governors, &c., of the commonwealth,
from the days of Puritan Winthrop to the ever-memorable Morton, who,
strange as it may appear, was really elected Governor, though a
double-distilled Democrat. Bucklers, swords, drums and muskets, that
doubtless rattled and banged away upon Bunker Hill, were duly, carefully
and critically examined, and as a finale to my debut in the Senate, I
mounted the Speaker's stand, and spouted about three feet of Webster's
first oration at Bunker Hill. To be sure, my audience was _small_, but
_it_ was duly attentive, and as I waved my hands aloft, and thumped my
ribs, after the most approved system of patriotic vehemence of the day,
he--my audience--opened his mouth, and stretched his eyes to the size of
dinner plates, at my prodigious slaps at eloquence; the very ears of the
_canvased_ governors seemed pricked up, and I descended the stand big as
Mogul, insinuated "a quarter" into the palm of the polite attendant,
informed him I should call in a few days to take a view from the top of
the dome, &c. He bowed and I took myself off.
Several days afterwards I found myself in the vicinity of the State
House; so, thinks I, I'll just drop in, and go up to the top of the dome
and get a view of the city and suburbs.
My chaperon was on hand, and he no sooner clapped eyes upon me, than he
pitched into all manner of highfernooten flub-dubs, bowed and scraped,
and regretted that the day was so misty and dull, as I would not be
enabled to have half a chance to get a view.
"I wouldn't try it to-day, sir," said he.
"What's the reason?" asked I.
"Oh," replied he, "you'll not see half the outline of the city and the
villages around, and you'll want to get them all down distinct."
"Get them all _down_ distinct?" quoth I.
"Yes, sir; and the day is so dull and cloudy that you'll not see half
the prominent buildings, never mind the whole of the former and not so
easily seen houses. You intend taking a full view, don't you, sir?"
"Why, yes, I would like to," says I, partly lost to conceive what caused
such a sudden and unaccountable ebullition of the man's great interest
in my getting "a first rate notice" of matters and things from the top
of the capitol! But up I went, in spite of my attentive friend's fears
of my not getting quite so clear and distinct a view as he could wish.
Having gratified myself with such a view as the weather and the height
of the capitol afforded (and in clear weather you can get far the best
survey of Boston and the environs from the top of the State House than
from any other promontory about), I descended again. At the foot of the
stairway my assiduous cicerone again beset me, introduced several other
miscellaneous-looking chaps to me, and, in short, was making of me, why
or wherefore I knew not, quite a lion!
"Well, sir," said he, "what do you think of it, sir? Could you get the
outline?"
"Not very well," said I, "but the view is very fine."
"O, yes, sir," said he; "but as soon as you wish to begin, sir, let me
know, and I'll lock the upper doors when you go up, and you'll not be
disturbed, sir."
"Lock the doors?" said I, in some amazement.
"Yes, sir," quoth he, "but it would be best to come as early in the
morning as possible, or, if convenient, before the visitors begin to
come up; they'd disturb you, you know!"
"Disturb _me!_ Why, I don't know how they would do that?"
"Why, sir, when Mr. Smith--you know Mr. Smith, sir, I suppose?"
"Why, yes; the name strikes me as _somewhat_ familiar; do you refer to
_John Smith_?" I observed, beginning to participate in the joke, which
began to develop itself pretty distinctly.
"Yes, sir; I believe his name is John--John R. Smith; he's a splendid
artist, sir; _his_ sketch or panorama is a beauty! Sir! did you ever see
his panorama?"
"I think I did, in New York," I replied.
By this time some dozen or two visitors had congregated around us, and I
was the centre of a considerable circle, and from the whispers, and
pointing of fingers, I felt duly sensible, that, great or small, I was a
LION! Under what auspices, I was in too dense a fog to make out; to me
it was an unaccountable mist'ry.
"I'll tell you what I can do, sir," continued my toady; "I can have a
small platform erected, outside of the cupola, for you, to place your
_designs_ or sketches on, and you'll not be so liable to be disturbed.
Mr. Smith, he had a platform made, sir."