Very late in the year 1848—Christmas day, to be exact—I found myself in
New Orleans, bankrupt in health and looking forward, hopelessly, to a
seemingly not far off culmination of my earthly affairs. But, owing to
the possession of a strong constitution, the good offices of kind
friends, and careful medical treatment, I was enabled to disappoint the
prophets and to evade the undertaker. By the time I had regained my
feet, the balmy days of March had come around, and I improved the
opportunity to make my duty-calls upon the kind-hearted friends who had
taken an active interest in the welfare of a stranger who had been cast
upon their shores. I found them wonderfully to my liking, generous,
cordial, and frank, to a degree I had never dreamed of.
It was fortunate for me that I happened to become a denizen of that
interesting old city during one of its better periods. Socially it was
at high-water mark; the theatres were good and the French opera the
better of all outside of Paris. In the winter it was the rendezvous for
the well-to-do families of the whole far South. The rich cotton planters
from Tennessee, Mississippi, and Alabama, and the sugar planters from
along the “coast” came to this Southern metropolis, and brought with
them their pretty daughters with their velvety voices, unaffected
speech, garnished with its tint of African accent, and their frank,
disingenuous ways; and also came their sons, who were not so
fascinating, but were good fellows at heart—the majority of them—and, as
a rule, save for one weakness, they were all right. But they had the
unpleasant habit of “drawing at sight,” and to the credit of their
alertness, I am compelled to record that they were apt to see very
quick.
The presence of a large colony of well-to-do planters assisted to make
New Orleans a very attractive winter resort. But they were not more
given to pleasure than the average citizen of the place, who, as a rule,
did not take life very seriously. He was in business, but not its slave,
and each day brought with it its pleasurable recreation. With their
peculiar and novel ways they were, to me, a revelation; the community
made up of them seemed almost ideal, and had it not been for the
presence of the slave and the slave market, the old French city, in its
relation to a certain select few, could have passed for a kind of brick
and mortar Arcadia.
Among the favorite recreations of that period was a drive down the shell
road to Lake Ponchartrain, where there was a famous afternoon resort
kept by Capt. Dan Hicox, a once famous “Captain on the Lakes,” a teller
of good stories and fabricator of the best fish and game dinners and
suppers to be found in the whole South. To say that his establishment
was popular would give but a faint idea of the real conditions. Of a
pleasant afternoon, in certain seasons of the year, nearly all that was
jolliest and brightest in New Orleans society could be found sitting
upon the captain’s piazzas, enjoying the breezes of the lake, which were
usually tempered with something taken through a straw or drawn from the
upper end of a bottle recently from the ice-chest.
In addition to the usual attractions of such a resort, there was a
circular pen with a pole planted in the centre of it to which was
attached a certain two-thirds grown specimen of the common American
black bear. When the merest mite of a cub he had been captured in the
wilds of Michigan, and afterwards sent to “Captain Dan” as a present by
one of his old friends of the lakes.
“Tim” was a great pet and altogether comical. He found a comic side to
every incident which came under his observation, and, seemingly, never
had a serious thought or an unhappy moment. It might be said of him that
he was reared in luxury, for during his infancy he had a pleasant corner
of the bar-room for his abode, where he became the pet of the patrons
and the recipient of all kinds of good things from the larder, with now
and then a taste from the bottle arranged in a way to fit his appetite,
and very much to his liking.
In the interests of truthful history, it must be recorded that “Tim,”
within a short time after his first julep, became enamored of the
bottle, and, very much after the manner of the old style Southern
bar-room tippler, would watch the patrons of the bar, looking wistfully
into their faces for an invitation to “smile.” At the beginning of his
career as an habitual drinker, it took about six or seven “treats” to
put him in a state of good-natured inebriation. When in that condition,
he was the incarnation of animal happiness; lying upon his back with all
four feet in the air, head to one side, tongue half out of his wide-open
mouth, with eyes half closed, he was the perfect personification of good
nature and indifference to earthly happenings. Kings might rule the
world, but Tim’s happiness was supreme. He envied no other bear, and if
a tree trunk filled with the most delicious honey had been within easy
reach he would not have raised a paw for a barrel of it. The things of
this world troubled him not, and he possessed only one phase of the
great passion of avarice—he always, when sober, wanted enough strong
drink to make him happy. He had the appetite of the habitual human
drunkard, but, when in his cups, differed from his human _confrère_ in
one important particular; he was good natured and kind and never
quarrelsome or cruel like the human brute in a similar condition.
Sometimes, when he was floored, a friend would try to coax him to
another drink by temptingly placing a well-filled glass near his nose,
an invitation that would generally excite in him an effort to rise and a
very comical and unsteady attempt to follow the lead of the disappearing
glass; usually he would wobble over, but would right himself enough to
sit up and gaze intently after the fascinating beverage beyond his
reach. In respect to demeanor or quantity, he was quite human; he never
knew he was making a beast of himself, or when he had enough. I do not
pretend to say that Tim’s habits of drink were not reprehensible; for
the purposes of this true story he must have the blame. It was certainly
not the fault of his master; he simply suffered the usual penalty of
having too many thoughtless and convivial friends.
In course of time, Tim became quite a bear, altogether too large for a
bar-room pet, and was removed to a specially prepared pen and chained to
a pole with a platform rest at the top. The change for Tim was not a
success. He spent his time in running around and climbing up and down
his pole, all the time whining, pleading, and scolding; he grew thin,
and looked and acted as though he regarded life as a failure.
Occasionally, a friend, pitying his unhappy condition, would unchain him
and lead him to his old haunt. In fact, it was nearly impossible to lead
him in any other direction. As soon as released from his pole he would
start for the bar-room, dragging his friend with him, nor would he stop
until he reached his favorite room, when, standing up with his hands on
the counter, he would mumble out in his most intelligible bear-language
a peremptory demand for a drink. Sometimes he was indulged to an extent
which would enable him to catch a glimpse of his lost paradise, but
usually he was returned to his pen after having disposed of only enough
of his favorite beverage to give him an appetite for more.
It had often been suggested that if Tim could have a congenial
occupation his grief for his lost liberty would not be so acute.
Accidentally, an employment for all his spare time was forced upon him.
One day, during a great thunderstorm, when the wind was blowing strong
from the east, a small alligator, about six feet long, was carried by a
wave to a part of the piazza near where I was sitting. He undertook to
get back into the lake with the receding water, but, being determined to
detain him, I caught him by the end of the tail. Within half of a second
the problem of extremes meeting was solved. As soon as he felt my hold
he doubled himself around, brought his jaws to-together with a savage
snap, and came within an infinitesimal measure of catching my hand. By
that time my blood was up, and I made up my mind to effect a capture of
my belligerent caller. With the use of a strong chair for a weapon, I
succeeded in preventing his return to the lake. Soon assistance with a
rope arrived, and a tight-drawn noose around the upper jaw did the rest.
“De ’gater swished dat tail a’ his awfully Massa, but we done got him
sure,” was the announcement that conveyed to “Captain Dan” the
information that he was the owner of a “’gater.” Our captive was put in
a safe place for the night, and the next morning what to do with him
became the burning question.
After considerable discussion a valuable suggestion came from one of the
colored spectators. He said: “I reckon if dat ’gater and Tim had a
chance dey’d make fust-rate frens inside a week.” A unanimous vote
approved of the proposition, and in five minutes “de ’gater was in de
pen” and the gate closed.
It was Tim’s custom whenever he heard company approaching his place of
abode to meet them at the threshold. Upon this occasion, as usual, he
was ready to bestow the hospitalities of his establishment, but the
manner of his receiving was neither urbane nor graceful. His front door
was suddenly opened and an unwelcome guest unceremoniously thrust upon
the hospitality of the unsuspecting Tim, who was wholly unprepared for
such a visitor. It was his first experience with a Saurian. He had never
seen one before, and it took only a second for him to make up his mind
to pass the act of non-intercourse. He scampered to his pole and climbed
to his platform at the top, where, during the next twenty-four hours, he
remained an anxious and frightened observer.
The new arrangement was no more satisfactory to the guest than to the
host. He missed his shore promenades and bathing accommodations; could
not imagine why he was shut up in a small enclosure, and spent his first
day and night in searching for an opening large enough for him to crawl
through. By noon of his second day of confinement he gave up his
fruitless search and settled down to a midday repose.
Tim, weary with anxious watching, seeing his opportunity for an
investigation, cautiously descended to the ground, and noiselessly
approached near enough to his guest to reach him with a front paw; then,
for several minutes, he sat upon his haunches and made a very careful
diagnosis of the case before him and came to the conclusion that it was
not to his liking, and that he would have no more of it than he could
help. Acting upon this deliberately formed conclusion, he made a vicious
grab with both paws at the tail of the unsuspecting Saurian. Great was
his surprise to find that his victim was very wide awake, indeed, for no
sooner had he felt the disturbance at his caudal end than he sent his
open jaws around to ascertain the cause. This sudden flank movement was
a great surprise to Tim, who experienced considerable difficulty in
extracting one of his paws from the ample jaws of a “feller” that at
least one bear could not understand. Tim was not encouraged to another
investigation at the moment, but re-ascended to his throne, where he
spent the remainder of the day in licking the wounded paw, casting, now
and then, malicious glances at his unbidden guest, and concocting plans
for the future.
The next day was bright and sunny, and brought with it apparent peace to
the domain of Tim. The Saurian was calmly reposing in the sunshine, and
Tim was doing his best thinking. He had not quite decided as to the
manner of proceeding, but upon one point he had made up his mind. There
was to be no middle way. His enemy was to be conquered and the savage
attack upon his paw avenged. With his mind then fully made up he
descended for a second investigation and another possible attack. This
time his approach was doubly guarded, and he was particularly careful in
calculating the distance between his position and the jaws which had
given him such an unpleasant surprise.
After a deliberate survey of the situation, Tim made a sudden spring to
the side of his enemy, caught him under his chest, and turned him upon
his back. This side attack was unexpected and a perfect success, and the
reptile had an active and prolonged struggle to regain his natural
position. Tim watched the struggle with intense interest, seeming to be
happy in knowing that he held the key to the situation. From that time
on, his guest during the daylight hours had no peace. Whenever Tim had
an opportunity, he turned him over, and, when not engaged in that
diversion, he was chasing him around the enclosure. About one month of
such an existence brought the Saurian very near to his end. From a most
healthy and vigorous “’gater” at the time he was caught he had become
weak, weary and lank; so forlorn was his lamentable condition that he
excited the sympathy of some human friend, who, during the night, opened
the gate to the pen. The following morning the persecuted reptile was
nowhere to be found. From that moment Tim became his former self,
watched anxiously at the gate for the coming of friends, and pleaded
pertinaciously for the intoxicating beverage.
The summer and greater part of the autumn after the “’gater” incident, I
spent at the Mississippi Springs, and, while there, received a letter
from a friend, who, next to myself, was the most ardent admirer Tim ever
had. It was the last word relating to my comical four-footed intimate,
and I cannot close this truthful narration more appropriately than by
quoting from it:
“You will sympathize with me in our mutual loss. Probably, we have seen
the last of our old friend Tim; he departed from his well scratched pole
about two weeks ago, and is now on the road as an important item in ‘The
Most Colossal Show Ever Known.’ He had grown so large, and his appetite
for strong drink had increased to such an alarming extent, that the
attending darkies lost confidence in their ability to handle him. During
his later days at the Lake, he appeared to have but one idea, and that
related to opportunities for intoxication. Whenever his pen door opened,
no matter for what purpose, he would make a rush for whoever came in,
and demand to be led to the bar-room, and, if disappointed, would make a
most furious demonstration.
“‘Captain Dan’ was immensely attached to him, but felt that the time had
arrived when some disposition must be made of him. The menagerie at
Algiers was the opportunity. A bargain was struck, and the time fixed
for his departure.
“‘Captain Dan’ decided to give him a regular ‘Fourth of July’ send-off,
and, to that end, invited a few of his most intimate friends and
admirers to be present at the performance. The guests were assembled,
and Tim was released from his pole. He made a tremendous rush for the
open bar-room door dragging two stalwart Africans after him at a
break-neck pace. He went direct to his old corner where he found a large
tin pan filled with a milk-punch such as he had never tasted before. He
emptied it in short order and then, taking it between his paws, sat up,
licked the last reminiscence of the punch out of it, and in a few
moments became the most comical object imaginable. In fact he was never
known to be more funny. He was laughed at, poked with sticks, had his
ears pulled, but all to no purpose; he was too happy to be offended. He
made a few efforts to stand erect and to appear sober and dignified, but
ended each attempt by rolling over upon his back a helpless lump of limp
intoxication.
“In that condition, our old friend was bundled into a box on wheels, and
made ready for his departure to the new life. Before going we all shook
him by the paw, patted his head, and wished him a happy future, and, as
he disappeared in the distance, there was a general expression of regret
that we had seen the last of poor Tim. ‘Captain Dan’s’ lip trembled, and
I feel sure if he had had it to do over again, he wouldn’t have done
it.”
This parting with Tim proved to be the end of his connection with the
friends of his babyhood and youth: none of them so far as I know, ever
saw him again.
Possibly a little bit of a lesson may be shown from the simple life
described. Tim, no doubt, came of decent parents of good habits and
morals, and in his downfall, there was no question of heredity involved.
In his infancy he was placed within easy reach of the temptations of the
bowl, and so, in his manhood, became as much of a victim to strong drink
as his surrounding circumstances would permit. Therefore, the inference
is, if he had not been tempted, there would have been no fall, and Tim
would have led a sober life and have been a respectable member of bear
society, provided human beings had left him in the home intended for his
race.
His degradation, like that of the North American Indian, came from
contact with our superior Western civilization.