The Skipper's Schooner.
No better specimen of the genus, genuine Yankee nation, can be found,
imagined or described, than the skippers of along shore, from
Connecticut river to Eastport, Maine. These critters give full scope to
the Hills and Hacketts of the stage, and the Sam Slicks and
Falconbridges of the press, to embody and sketch out in the broadest
possible dialect of Yankee land. One of these "tarnal critters," it is
my purpose to draw on for my brief sketch, and I wish my readers to do
me the credit to believe that for little or no portion of my yarn or
language am I indebted to fertility of imagination, as the incidents are
real, and quite graphic enough to give piquancy to the subject.
Last spring, just after the breaking up of winter, a down-east smack or
schooner, freighted with cod-fish and potatoes, I believe, rounded off
Cape Ann light, and owing to head winds, or some other perversity of a
nautical nature, could no further go; so the skipper and his crew--one
man, green as catnip--made for an anchorage, and hove the "hull consarn"
to. Here they lay, and tossed and chafed, at their moorings, for a day
or two, without the slightest indication on the part of the weather to
abate the nuisance. So the commander of the schooner got in his little
"dug-out," and giving the aforesaid crew special injunctions to keep all
fast, he pulled off to shore to take a look around.
Now, it so fell out that in the course of a few hours' time after the
departure of the skipper, a snorting east wind sprang up, and not only
blew great guns, but chopped up a short, heavy sea, perfectly
astonishing and alarming to Hezekiah Perkins, in the rolling and
pitching schooner. It was Hez's first attempt at seafaring; and this
sort of reeling and waltzing about, as a matter of course, soon
discomboberated his bean basket, and set his head in a whirl and dancing
motion--better conceived by those who have seen the sea elephant than
described. Hez got dea-a-athly sick, so sick he could not budge from the
stern sheets, where he had taken a squat in the early commencement of
his difficulties. In the mean time, the skipper came down to the beach
and hailed the victim:
"Hel-LO! hel-LO!"
Hez feebly elevated his optics, and looking to the windward, where stood
his noble captain, he made an effort to say over something:
"Wha-a-t ye-e-e want?"
"What do I want? Why, yeou pesky critter, yeou, go for'ard thar and hist
the jib, take up the anchor, put your helm a-lee, and beat up to town!"
This was all very well, provided the skipper was there to superintend,
manage and carry out his voluble orders; but as the surf prevented him
from coming on board, and the lightness of Hez's head militated against
the almost superhuman possibility of carrying out the skipper's orders,
things remained _in statu quo_, the skipper ashore, and Hez fervently
wishing he was too.
"Ain't you a-going to stir round there, and save the vessel?" bawled the
excited captain.
"How on airth," groaned the horror-stricken mariner, "how on airth am I
to help it?"
"Wall, by Columbus, she'll go clean ashore, or blow eout to sea afore
long, sure as death!" responded the skipper; and before he had fairly
concluded his augury, sure enough, the halser parted, the schooner slew
round and made a bee-line _for Cowes and a market!_ This rather brought
Hezekiah to his oats--he riz, tottering and feeble, on his shaky pins,
and crawled forward to get up the jib.
"O ye-s, now yeou're coming about it, yes, yeou be," bawled the almost
frantic skipper, as the distance between him and his vessel was
increasing. "Put her abeout and head her up the ba-a-y!" But it was no
kind of use in talking, for Hezekiah could not raise the jib; and his
imperfect nautical knowledge, under such a snarl, completely bewildered
and disgusted him with the prospect. So saying over the seven
commandments and other serious lessons of youth, Hezekiah resigned
himself to the tumultuous elements, and concluded it philosophical and
scriptural resignation to let Providence and the old schooner fix out
the programme just as they might. It is commonly reported, that our
mackerel catchers, when a storm or gale overtakes them on the briny
deep, lash all fast and go below, turn in and let their smacks rip along
to the best of their knowledge and ability. They seldom founder or get
severely scathed; and these facts, or perfect indifference, having
entered the head of Hezekiah Perkins, he became perfectly unconcerned as
to future developments. Night coming on, the skipper saw his schooner
fast departing out to sea, and when she was no longer to be seen, he
made tracks for Boston, to report the melancholy facts to the owners of
the vessel and cargo, and see about the insurance.
Next morning, the skipper having discovered that the insurance was safe,
he found himself in better spirits; so he walked down along the wharves,
to take a look out upon the bay and shipping--when lo, and behold, he
sees a vessel so amazingly like his Two Pollies, that he could not
refrain from exclaiming:
"Hurrah! hurrah! By Christopher Columbus--if thar don't come my old
beauty and Hez Perkins, too--hurrah!"
The overjoyed skipper went off into a double hornpipe on a single
string; and as the veritable schooner came booming saucily up the bay
before a spanking breeze, with her jib spread, the skipper called out in
a voice of thunder and gladness:
"Hel-lo! Hez Perkins, is that yeou?"
"Hel-lo! Cap'n, I'm coming, by pumpkins! Clear the track for the Two
Pollies!" And putting her head in among the smacks of Long Wharf, Hez
let her rip and smash chock up fast and tight. When the captain landed
on his own deck, he rushed into the arms of his brave mate Hezekiah, and
they had a regular fraternal hug all round--and Hezekiah Perkins, in
behalf of his wonderful skill, perseverance and luck, was unanimously
voted first mate of the Two Pollies on the spot. It appeared that a
change of wind during the night had driven the wandering vessel back
into the bay, and Hezekiah, having got over his sick spell by daylight,
crawled forward, got up the jib, and actually made the wharf, as we have
described.
Philosophy of the Times.
The philosophy of the present age is peculiarly the philosophy of
outsides. Few dive deeper into the human breast than the bosom of the
shirt. Who could doubt the heart that beats beneath a cambric front? or
who imagine that hand accustomed to dirty work which is enveloped in
white kid? What Prometheus was to the physical, the tailor is to the
moral man--the one made human beings out of clay, the other cuts
characters out of broadcloth. Gentility is, with us, a thing of the
goose and shears.
The Emperor and the Poor Author.
"The pen is mightier than the sword."
Great men are not the less liable or addicted to very small, and very
mean, and sometimes very _rascally acts_, but they are always fortunate
in having any amount of panegyric graven on marble slabs, shafts and
pillars, o'er their dust, and eulogistic and profound histories written
in memories of the deeds of renown and glory they have executed. An
American 74-gun ship would hardly float the mountains of _tomes_ written
upon Bonaparte and his brilliant career, as a soldier and a conqueror;
but how precious few, insignificant pages do we ever see of the
misdeeds, tyrannies and acts of petty and contemptuous meanness so great
a man was guilty of! Why should authors and orators be so reluctant to
tell the truth of a great man's follies and crimes, seeing with what
convenience and fluency they will _lie_ for him? We contend, and shall
contend, that a truly great man cannot be guilty of a small act, and
that one contemptible or atrocious manifestation in man, is enough to
sully--tarnish the brightness of a dozen brilliant deeds; but
apparently, the accepted notion is--_vice versa_.
In 1830, there lived in the city of Philadelphia, a barber, a poor,
harmless, necessary barber. His antique, or most curious costume,
attracted much attention about the vicinity in which he lived, and no
doubt added somewhat to the custom of his shop, itself a _bijou_ as
curious almost as the proprietor. But as our story has but little to do
with the queer outside of the _barber_ or his _shop_, and we do not now
purpose a whole history of the man, we shall at once proceed to the pith
of our subject--the Emperor and the poor Author, or Napoleon and his
Spies--and in which our aforesaid Philadelphia barber plays a
conspicuous part.
Some of the writers, a few of those partially daring enough to give an
impartial _expose_ of the history of the Bonapartean times, seem to
think that Napoleon committed a great error in his accession to the
throne, by doubting the stability of his reign, and having pursued
exactly measures antipodean to those necessary to seat him firmly in the
hearts of the people, and cement the foundation of his newly-acquired
power. But we don't think so; the means by which he obtained the giddy
height, to a comprehensive mind like his, at once suggested the
necessity of vigilance, promptness, and unflinching execution of
whatever act, however tyrannous or heartless it might have been, his
unsleeping mind suggested--
"Crowns got with blood, by blood must be maintained."
Jealous and suspicious, he sought to shackle public opinion--the fearful
hydra to all ambitious aspirants--to know all _secrets_ of the time and
states, and render one half of the great nations he held in his grasp
spies upon the other! The most profligate principles of Machiavel sink
into obscurity when contrasted with the Imperial _Espionage_ of
Napoleon. When no longer moving squadrons in the tented field--whole
armies, like so many pieces of chess in the hands of a dexterous
player--he sat upon his throne, reclined upon his lounge or smoked in
his bath, organized and moved the most difficult and dangerous forces in
the world--_an army of Spies!_
All ages, from that of infancy to decrepitude--all conditions of life,
from peer to parvenu--from plough to the anvil--pulpit to the
bar--orators and beggars, soldiers and sailors, male and female of every
grade--men of the most insinuating address, and women of the most
seductive ages and loveliness, grace and beauty were enlisted and
trained to serve--in what the pot-bellied, bald-headed little monster of
war used to call his _Cytherian Cohort!_ Snares set by these imperial
policemen were difficult to avoid, from the almost utter impossibility
of suspicioning their presence or power.
In 1808, a learned Italian, noble by birth, in consequence of the
movements and _executions_ of Napoleon, found it prudent to shave off
his moustache and titles, and change the scene of his future life, as
well as change his name. A master of languages and a man of mind, he
sought the learned precincts of Leipsic, Germany, where he preserved his
incognito, though he was not long in winning the grace, and other
considerations due enlarged intellect, from those not lacking that
invaluable commodity themselves. Herr Beethoven--the new title of our
Italian "mi lord"--conceived the project of convincing the mighty
Emperor--the hero of the sword--that so little a javelin as the pen
could puncture the _sac_ containing all _his_ great pretensions, and let
the vapor out; in short, to show the conqueror, that the pen _was_
mightier than his magic sword. Beethoven purposed writing a pamphlet
_memorial_, involving the bombastic pretensions, the gigantic
extravagance and arrogant ambition of Bonaparte. The man of letters well
knew the ground upon which he was to tread, the danger of ambushed foes,
involving such a _brochure_, and the caution necessary with which he was
to produce his work. But Beethoven felt the necessity of the production;
he possessed the power to execute a great benefit to his fellow man, and
he determined to wield it and take the chances. Though scarcely giving
breath to his project--guarding each page of his writing as vigilantly
as though they were each blessed with the enchantment of a
_Koh-i-Noor_--a mysterious agency discovered the fact--Napoleon shook
in his royal boots, and swore in good round French, when the following
missive reached his royal eye:--
_Sire(!)_--A plot is brewing against your peace; the safety of your
throne is menaced by a villainous scribe. My informant, who has
read the manuscripts, informs me that he has never seen any thing
better or more imposing, and ingenious in argument and force, than
the fellow's appeal to all the crowned heads and people of Europe.
It is calculated to carry an irresistible conviction of the wrongs
they suffer from your imperial majesty to every breast. These
manuscripts are fraught with more danger to your Imperial Majesty's
Empire, than all the hostile bayonets in the world combined against
you, Sire.
Leipsic, 1808. Baron De----.
Here was a hot shot dangling over the magazines of the mighty man, and
the "little corporal" jumped into his boots, and began to set the wheels
of his great "expediency" in motion. A message flew here, and another
there; a dispatch to this one, and a royal order to that one. A dozen
secretaries, and a score of _amanuensises_ were instantly at work, and
the alarmed "Emperor of all the French" fairly beat the _reveille_ upon
his diamond-cased snuff box; while, with the rapidity of the clapper of
an alarm bell, he issued to each the oral order to which they were to
lend enchantment by their rapid quills.
Herr Beethoven was surprised in his very closet! Papers were found
scattered all over his little sanctum--the spies had him and his
effects, most promptly; but what was the rage and disappointment of the
emissaries of the wily monarch, to find neither hair nor hide of the
dreaded _fiat!_ Had it gone forth? Was it secreted? Was it written?
They had the _man_, but his flesh and blood were as valueless as a
pebble to a diamond, contrasted with the witchery of the _words_ he had
invested a few sheets of simple paper with! They searched his
clothes--tore up his bed, broke up his furniture, powdered his few
pieces of statuary, but all in vain--the sought for, dreaded, and hated
documents, for which his _Imperial highness_ would have secretly given
ten--twenty--fifty thousand _louis_--was not to be found! The rage of
the inquisitors was terrific--showing how well they were chosen or paid,
to serve in their atrocious capacities. The poor scribe was promised all
manner of unpleasant _finales_, cursed, menaced, and finally coaxed.
"I have written nothing--published nothing, nor do I intend to write or
publish anything," was Beethoven's reply.
"Speak fearlessly," said the chief of the inquisitors, "and rely upon a
generous monarch's benevolence. My commission, sir, is limited to
ascertain whether poverty has not compelled you to write; if that be the
case, speak out; place any price upon your work--the price is nothing--I
will pay you at once and destroy your documents."
"Your offers, sir," responded the poor author, "are most kind and
liberal, and I regret extremely that it is _not_ in my power to avail
myself of them. I again declare, sir, that I have never written anything
against the French government--your information to the contrary is false
and wicked."
The spies, finding they could not gain any information of the author, by
threat or bribe, carried him to France, where his doom was supposed to
be sealed in torture and death, in the _Bastile_ of the Emperor.
But where was this fearful manuscript--this dreaded scribbling of the
God-forsaken, poor, forlorn author? The emissaries of his serene
highness had the blood, bones, and body of the wretched scribe, but
where was that they feared more than all the warlike forces of a million
of the best equipped forces of Europe--the paltry paper pellets of a
scholar's brain--the _memorial_ to the crowned heads, and people of the
several shivering monarchies of continental Europe?
A few brief hours--not two days--before the _pseudo_ Herr Beethoven was
honored by the special considerations and attentions of the Emperor of
all the French--the conqueror of a third, at least, of the civilized
world--he had conceived suspicions of a man to whom in the _most
profound confidence_ he had revealed a slight whisper of his
projects--impressed with the foreshadowing that a mysterious _something_
dangerous was about to menace him, he made way with the manuscripts, to
which his soul clung as too dear and precious to be destroyed--he gave
them to the charge of a tried friend--and before the _Cytherian Cohort_
were upon the threshold of the author, his _memorial_ was snugly
ensconced in the obscure and remote secretary of a gentleman and a man
of letters, in the renowned city of Prague. The alarm and friend's
appearance seemed most opportune--for an hour after the visitation of
the one, the other was at hand--the documents transferred and on their
way to their place of refuge.
But difficult was the stepping-stone to Napoleon's greatness--the more
the mystery of the manuscripts augmented--the more enthusiastic became
his research--the more formidable appeared the necessity of grasping
them; and the determination, at all hazards, to clutch them, before they
served their purpose!
"Bring me the manuscripts"--was the _fiat_ of the Emperor: "I care not
_how_ you obtain them--get them, _bring them here_; and mark you, let
neither money, danger nor fatigue, oppose my will. Hence--bring the
manuscripts!"
Again Leipsic was invested by the _Cytherian Cohort_ of the modern
Alexander; the rival of Hannibal, the great little commandant of the
most warlike nation of the earth. The Baron ----, who was master of
ceremonies in this great enterprise, now arrested the secret agent who
had given the information of the existence of the _memorial_. This
wretch had received five hundred crowns for his espionage and
treachery. His fee was to be quadrupled if his atrocious information
proved correct; so dear is the mere foreshadowing of ill news to
vaunting ambition and quaking imposters. Bengert, the German spy, was
sure of the genuineness of his information--he was much astonished that
the Baron had not seized the _memorial_, as well as the body of the
hapless author. The Baron and the treacherous German conferred at
length; an idea seemed to strike the spy.
"I have it," he exclaimed, a few days before his arrest. "I saw a friend
visit Beethoven; I know they both entertained the same sentiments in
regard to the Emperor--_that man has the manuscripts_."
Where was that man? It was finding the needle in the hay stack--_the_
pebble in the brook. Again the Emperor urged, and the _Cytherian Cohort_
plied their cunning and perseverance. That _friend_ of the poor author
was found--he was tilling his garden, surrounded by his flower pots and
children, on the outskirts of Prague, Bohemia. It was in vain he
questioned his captors. He dropped his gardening implements--blessed his
children--kissed them, and was hurried off, he knew not whither or
wherefore! Shaubert was this man's name; he was forty, a widower--a
scholar, a poet--liberally endowed by wealth, and loved the women!
It was Baron ----'s province to find out the weak points of each victim.
"If he has a _particular_ regard for _poetry_, he does love the fine
arts," quoth the Baron, "and women are the queens of _fine arts_. I'll
have him!"
In the secret prison of Shaubert he found an old man, confined for--he
could not learn what. Every day, the yet youthful and most fascinating,
voluptuous and beautiful daughter of the old man, visited his cell,
which was adjoining that of Shaubert's. As she did so, it was not long
before she found occasion to linger at the door of the widower, the
poet--and sigh so piteously as to draw from the victim, at first a holy
poem, and at length an amative love lay. Like fire into tow did this
effusion of the poet's quill inflame the breast and arouse the passions
of the lovely Bertha; and in an obscure hour, after pouring forth the
soul's burden of most vehement love, the angel in woman's form(!), with
implements as perfect as the very jailor's, opened all the bolts and
bars, and led the captive forth to liberty! She would have the poet who
had entranced her, fly and leave her to her fate! But _poetry_ scorned
such dastardy--it was but to brave the uncertainty of fate to stay, and
torture to go--Bertha must fly with him. She had a father--could she
leave him in bondage? No! She had rescued her lover--she braved
more--released her parent in the next hour, by the same mysterious
means, and giving herself up to the tempest of love, she shared in the
flight of the poet. In a remote section of chivalric Bohemia, they found
an asylum. But Bertha was as yet but the deliverer from bondage, if not
death, of her soul's idol; he, with all the warmth and gratitude of a
dozen poets, worshipped at her feet and besought her to bless him
evermore by sharing his fate and fortune. There was a something
imposing, a something that brought the pearly tear to the heroic girl's
eye and made that lovely bosom undulate with most sad emotion. The poet
pressed her to his heart--fell at her feet, and begged that if his
life--property--children--be the sacrifice--but let him know the secret
at once--he was her friend--defender--lover--slave. Another sigh, and
the spell was broken.
"Why--ah! why were you a state prisoner--a _secret_ prisoner in
the ----?"
"Loved angel," answered the poet, "I scarce can tell; indeed I have not
the merest _hint_, in my own mind, to tell me for what I was arrested
and thrown into prison!"
"Ah! sir," sighed the lovely Bertha, "I can never then wed the man I
love--I cannot brave the dangers of an unknown fate--at some moment
least expected, to be torn from his arms--lost to him forever!"
"We can fly, dearest," suggested the poet, "we can fly to other and more
secure lands. In the sunshine of your sweet smile, my dear Bertha,
obscurity--poverty would be nothing."
"No," said the girl, "I cannot leave my father--the land of my
birth--home of my childhood. I that have given you liberty, may point
out a way to deliver you from further restraint. How I learned the
nature of your crime, ask not; I know your secret."
"Ah! what mean you?"
"In a foolish hour," continued the lovely Bertha, with downcast eyes and
heaving bosom, "you impaled your generous self to save a friend--the
friend fled--you were arrested--"
"Good God!" exclaimed the poet, "Herr Beethoven----"
"Gave you possession of----" she continued.
"No! no! no!" interposed the affrighted poet, daring not to breathe
"yes," even to the ear of his fair preserver.
"Sir," calmly continued the girl, "I have risked my own life and liberty
to preserve yours, I have----"
"I--I know it all, dear--dearest angel, but----"
"Those manuscripts," she continued, fixing her keen but melting gaze
upon the poor victim.
"Ha! manuscripts? How learned you this? No, no, it cannot be----"
"It is known--I know it--I learned it from your captors; but for my
_love_," said the girl, "mad--guilty love--your life would have been
forfeited--your house pillaged by the emissaries of the Emperor, in
quest of those manuscripts. While they exist, Bertha cannot be
happy--Bertha's love must die with her--Bertha be ever miserable!"
"I-a--I will--but no! no! I have no manuscripts! It is false--false!"
exclaimed the almost distracted poet.
"Herr Shaubert," said the girl, clasping the hand of the poet, and
throwing herself at his feet, "am I unworthy your love?"
"Dear, dear Bertha, do not torture me! do not, for God's sake! Rise; let
me at your feet swear, in answer--_No!_"
"Then, within four-and-twenty hours, let me grasp that hated, damned
viper, that would gnaw the heart's core of Bertha. Give me the key of
your misery; O! bless me--bless your Bertha; give me those accursed
manuscripts, daggers bequeathed you by a false friend, that I may at
once, in your presence, give them to the flames; and Bertha, the idol of
your soul, be ever more blessed and happy!"
This appeal settled the business of the poet; he walked the room,
sighed, tore his _mouchoir_, oscillated between honor and
temptation--the angel form and syren tongue of the woman triumphed. In
course of a dozen hours, Bertha, the lovely, enchanting _spy_, opened
the secret drawers of the poet's secretary, and amid carefully-packed
literary rubbish, the dreaded _memorial_ was found--clutched with the
eagerness of a death-reprieve to a poor felon upon the verge of
eternity, and with the despatch of an hundred swift relays, the poor
author's manuscripts were placed in the hands of the mighty Emperor, and
while he read their fearful purport, and flashed with rage or grew livid
with each scathing word of the _memorial_, he hurriedly issued his
orders--gain to this one, sacrifice to that one; while he made the spy a
_countess_, he ordered hideous death to the poor poet and despair and
misery to his children.
"Fly!" the monarch shouted, "search every one suspected of a hand in
this; let them be dealt with instantly--trouble me not with detail, but
give me sure returns. Stop not, until this viper is exterminated; egg
and tooth; fang and scale; see it done and claim my bounty--_fly!_"
That _snake_ was scotched and killed--the few brief pages of an obscure
author that drove sleep, appetite and peace from the mighty Emperor, for
days and nights--made busy work for his thousands of
emissaries--scattered his gold in weighty streams--was read, cursed and
destroyed, and all suspected as having the slightest voice or opinion in
the secret _memorial_, met a secret fate--death or prolonged
wretchedness.
Herr Beethoven, the poor author, alone escaped; being overlooked in the
hot pursuit of his production, and by the blunder of those having charge
of himself and hundreds of other state prisoners--guilty or _suspected_
opponents to the vaulting ambition and power of him that at last ended
his own eventful career as a helpless prisoner upon an ocean isle--was
liberated and lost no time in making his way beyond the reach of
monarchs, tyranny and bondage. Beethoven came to America and settled in
Philadelphia, where, in the humble capacity of an e-razer of beards and
pruner of human mops, he eked out a reasonable existence for the residue
of his earthly existence; few, perhaps, dreaming in their profoundest
philosophy, that the little, eccentric-attired, grotesque-looking
barber, who tweaked their plebeian noses and combed their caputs, once
rejoiced in grand heraldic escutcheons upon his carriage panels as a
veritable Count, and still later made the throne tremble beneath the
feet of a second Alexander!
But God is great, and the ways of our every-day life, full of change and
mystery.
The Bigger Fool, the Better Luck.
The American "Ole Bull," young Howard, one of the most scientific
crucifiers of the _violin_ we ever heard, gave us a call t'other day,
and not only discoursed heavenly music upon his instrument, but gave us
the "nub" of a few jokes worth dishing up in our peculiar style. Howard
spent last winter in a tour over the State of _Maine_ and Canada. During
this _cool_ excursion, he got way up among the _wood_-choppers and
_log_-men of the Aroostook and Penobscot country. These wood-chopping
and log-rolling gentry, according to all accounts, must be a jolly,
free-and-easy, hard-toiling and hardy race. The "folks" up about there
live in very primitive style; their camps and houses are very useful,
but not much addicted to the "ornamental." Howard had a very long,
tedious and perilous _tramp_, on foot, during a part of his
peregrinations, and coming at last upon the settlement of the log-men,
he laid up several days, to recuperate. In the largest log building of
the several in the neighborhood, Howard lodged; the weather was
intensely cold--house crowded, and wood and game plenty. After a hard
day's toil, in snow and water, these log-men felt very much inclined, to
sleep. A huge fire was usually left upon the hearth, after the "tea
things" were put away, Howard gave them a _choon_ or two, and then the
woodmen lumbered up a rude set of steps--into a capacious loft overhead,
and there, amid the old quilts, robes, skins and straw, enjoyed their
sound and refreshing sleep--with a slight drawback.
Among these men of the woods, was a hard old nut, called and known among
them as--_Old Tantabolus!_ He was a wiry and hardy old rooster; though
his frosty poll spoke of the many, many years he had "been around," his
body was yet firm and his perceptions yet clear. The old man was a grand
spinner of yarns; he had been all around creation, and various other
places not set down in the maps. He had been a soldier and sailor: been
blown up and shot down: had had all the various ills flesh was heir to:
suffered from shipwreck and indigestion: witnessed the frowns and smiles
of fortune--especially the _frowns_; in short, according to old man
Tantabolus's own account of himself, he had seen more ups and downs, and
made more narrow and wonderful escapes, than Robinson Crusoe and
Gulliver both together--with Baron Trenck into the bargain!
For the first season, the old man and his narrations, being fresh and
novel, he was quite a _lion_ among the woodmen, but now that the novelty
had worn off, and they'd got used to his long yarns, they voted him "an
old bore!" The old fellow smoked a tremendous pipe, with tobacco strong
enough to give a Spaniard the "yaller fever." He would eat his supper,
light his pipe--sit down by the fire, and spin yarns, as long as a
listener remained, and longer. In short, Old Tantabolus would _spin_
them all to bed, and then make their heads spin, with the clouds of
_baccy_ smoke with which he'd fill the _ranche_.
Going to bed, at length, on a bunk in a corner, the old chap would
wheeze and snore for an hour or two, and then turning out again, between
daybreak and midnight, Old Tantabolus would pile on a cord or two of
fresh wood--raise a roaring fire--make the _ranche_ hot enough to roast
an ox, then treat all hands to another _stifling_ with his old
_calumet_, and nigger-head tobacco! Then would commence a--
"A-booh! oo-_oo!_" by one of the lodgers, overhead.
"Boo-oo-_ooh!_ Old Tantabolus's got that--booh-oo-oo-_oo_,--pipe of
his'n again,--boo-oo-oo!" chimed another.
"A-a-a-_chee!_ oo-oo-augh-h-h-_ch-chee!_ Cuss that--a-_chee_--pipe.
Tantabolus, you old hoss-marine, put out that--a-_chee!_--darn'd old
pipe!" bawled another.
"A'_nand_?" was the old fellow's usual reply.
"A-boo-ooh-_ooh!_" hoarse and loud as a boatswain's call, in a gale of
wind, would be issued from the throat of an old "logger," as the
fumigacious odor interfered with his respiratory arrangements, and then
would follow a miscellaneous--
"A-_chee_-o! Ah-_chee!_ boo-ooh-oo-_ooh!_" tapering off with divers
curses and threats, upon Old Tantabolus and his villanous habits of
arousing "the whole community" in "the dead watches and middle of the
night," with heat and smoke, no flesh and blood but his own could
apparently endure.
At length, a private _caucus_ was held, and a diabolical plan set, to
put a summary end to the grievous nuisances engendered by Old
Tantabolus--"_let's blow him up!_"
And this they agreed to do in _this_ wise. Before "retiring to rest," as
we say in civilized _parlance_, the lodging community were in the habit
of laying in a surplus of firewood, alongside of the capacious
fire-place, in order--should a very common occurrence _occur_,--i. e., a
fall of snow six to ten feet deep, and kiver things all up, the insiders
might have wherewith to make themselves comfortable, until they could
work out and provide more. But Old Tantabolus was in the wasteful
practice of turning out and burning up all this extra fuel; so the
caucus agreed to bore an inch and a quarter hole into a solid
stick--pack it with powder--lay it among the wood, and when Old
Tantabolus _riz_ to fire up, he'd be blowed out of the building, and
disappear--_in a blue blaze!_ Well, poor old man, Tantabolus, quite
unconscious of the dire explosion awaiting him, told his yarns, next
evening, with greater _gusto_ than usual, and one after another of his
listeners finally dropped off to _roost_, in the loft above, leaving
the old man to go it alone--finish his pipe, stagnate the air and go to
his bunk, which, as was his wont to do--he did. Stillness reigned
supreme; though Old Tantabolus took his usual snooze in very apparent
confidence, many of his no less weary companions above--watched for the
approaching _tableaux!_ And they were gratified, to their heart's
content, for the tableaux _came!_
"Now, look out, boys!" says one, "Old _Tanty's_ about to wake up!" and
then some dozen of the upper story lodgers, who had kept their peepers
open to enjoy the fun, began to spread around and pull away the loose
straw in order to get a view of the scene below. Sure enough, the old
rooster gave a long yawn--"Aw-w-w-w-_um!_" flirted off his "kiverlids"
and got up, making a slow move towards the fire-place, reaching which,
he gave an extra "Aw-w-w-_um!_" knocked the ashes out of his
pipe--filled it up with "nigger-head," dipped it in the embers, gave it
a few whiffs, and then said:
"Booh! cold mornin'; boys'll freeze, if I don't start up a good fire."
Then he went to work to cultivate a blaze, with a few chips and light
sticks of dry wood.
"Ah, by George, old feller," says one, "you'll catch a bite, before you
know it!"
"Yes, I'm blamed if you ain't a _goner_, Old Tantabolus!" says another,
in a pig's whisper.
"There! there he's got the fire up--now look out!"
"He's got the stick--"
"Goin' to clap it on!"
"Now it's on!"
"Look out for fun, by George, look out!"
"He'll blow the house up!"
"Godfrey! s'pose he does?"
"What an infernal _wind_ there is this morning!" says the old fellow,
hearing the _buzz_ and indistinct whispering overhead; "guess it's
snowin' like _sin_; I'll jist start up this fire and go out and see."
But, he had scarcely reached and opened the door, when--"_bang-g-g!_"
went the log, with the roar of a twelve pounder; hurling the fire, not
only all over the lower floor, but through the upper loose
flooring--setting the straw beds in a blaze--filling the house with
smoke, ashes and fire! There was a general and indiscriminate _rush_ of
the practical jokers in the loft, to make an escape from the now burning
building; but the step-ladder was knocked down, and it was at the peril
of their lives, that all hands jumped and crawled out of the _ranche!_
The only one who escaped the real danger was Old Tantabolus, the
intended victim, whose remark was, after the flurry was over--"Boys,
arter this, _be careful how you lay your powder round!_"
An Active Settlement.
Gen. Houston lives, when at home, at Huntsville, Texas; the inhabitants
mostly live, says Humboldt, Beeswax, Borax, or some of the other
historians, by hunting. The wolves act as watchmen at night, relieved
now and then by the Ingins, who make the wig business brisk by relieving
straggling citizens of their top-knots. A man engaged in a quiet smoke,
sees a deer or bear sneaking around, and by taking down his rifle, has
steaks for breakfast, and a haunch for next day's dinner, right at his
door. Vegetables and fruit grow naturally; flowers come up and bloom
spontaneously. The distinguished citizens wear buck-skin trowsers,
coon-skin hats, buffalo-skin overcoats, and alligator-hide boots. Old
San Jacinto walked into the Senate last winter--fresh from home--with a
panther-skin vest, and bear-skin breeches on! Great country, that
Texas.