Borrowed finery; or, Killed off by a Ballet Girl
Shakspeare has written – "let him that's robbed – not wanting what is stolen, not know it, and he's not robbed at all!" Now this fact often becomes very apparent, especially so in the case of Mrs. Pompaliner, – a lady of whom we have had occasion to speak before, the same who sent Mrs. Brown, the washerwomen, sundry boxes of perfume to mix in her suds, while washing the pyramids of dimity and things of Mrs. P. There never was a lady – no member of the sex, that ever suffered more, from dread of contagion, fear of dirt, and the contamination of other people, than Mrs. Pompaliner.
"Olivia," said she, one morning, to one of her waiting maids, for Mrs. Pompaliner kept three, alternating them upon the principle of varying her handkerchiefs, gloves and linen, as they – in her double-distilled refined idea of things, became soiled by use, from time to time. "Olivia, come here – Jessamine, you can leave: " she was so intent upon odor and nature's purest loveliness, that she either sought sweet-scented cognomened waiting-maids, or nick-named them up to the fanciful standard of her own.
"Olivia, here, take this handkerchief away, take the horrid thing away. I believe my soul somebody has touched it after it was ironed. Do take it away," and the poor victim of concentrated, double extract of human extravagance, almost fainted and fell back upon her lounge, in a fit of abhorrence at the idea of her mouchoir being touched, tossed, or opened, after it entered her camphorated drawers in her highly-perfumed boudoir.
"Olivia!"
"Yes'm," was the response of the fine, ruddy, and wholesome looking maid.
"Olivia, put on your gloves."
"Yes'm."
"Go down to Mrs. Brown's," she faintly says – "tell her to come here this very day."
"Yes'm."
"Olivia!"
"Yes'm," replied the fine-eyed, real woman.
"Got your gloves on?"
"Yes'm."
"Well, take this key, go to my boudoir, in the fifth drawer of my papier mache black bureau, you will find a case of handkerchiefs."
"Yes'm."
"Take out three, yes, four, close the case, lock the drawer, close the boudoir door, and bring down the handkerchiefs upon my rosewood tray. Do you comprehend, Olivia?"
"Yes'm," said the girl.
"But come here; let me see your hands. O, horror! such gloves! touch my handkerchiefs or bureau drawers with those horrid gloves! Poison me!" cries the terrified woman.
"Olivia," she again ejaculates, after a moment's pause, from overtasked nature!
"Yes'm," the blushing, tickled blonde replies.
"Go call Vanilla, you are quite soiled now. I want a fresh servant, retire."
"Ah, Vanilla, girl, have you got your gloves on?"
"Yes'm," the yellow girl modestly answers.
"Then do go and bring me six handkerchiefs from my boudoir, in the fifth drawer of my black papier mache bureau. Let me see your gloves, dear.
"Ah, Vanilla, you are to be depended upon; your gloves are clean – now run along, dear, for I'm suffering for a fresh, new, and untouched handkerchief.
"Ah, that's well. Now, Vanilla, go to Mrs. Brown's, my laundress – say that I wish her to come here, immediately."
"Yes'm," says the bright quadroon, and away she spins for the domicil of democratic Mrs. Brown, the laundress.
"Now what's up, I'd like to know?" quoth the old woman.
"Dunno, missus wants to see you – guess you better come," says Vanilla.
"Deuce take sich fussy people," says Mrs. Brown; "I wouldn't railly put up with all her dern'd nonsense, ef she wa'n't so poorly, so weak in her mind and body, and so good about paying for her work. No, I declare I wouldn't," said the strong-minded woman.
"Bring the creature up," said Mrs. Pompaliner, as one of her fresh attendants announced the washerwoman.
"Ah, you are here?"
"Yes," said the fat, hardy, and independent, if awkward, Mrs. Brown, as she stood in the august presence of Mrs. Pompaliner, and the gorgeous trappings of her own private drawing-room.
"Yes, I believe I am, ma'am!" says the she-democrat.
"Vanilla, tell Olivia to bring Jessamine here."
"Yes'm."
"Now Mrs. a – what is your name?"
"Brown, Dorcas Brown; my husband and I – "
"Never mind, that's sufficient, Mrs. a – Brown," said the reclining Mrs. Pompaliner. "I wish to know if anybody is permitted to touch or handle any of my wardrobe, my linen, handkerchiefs, hose, gloves, laces, etc., in your house?"
"Tetch 'em!" echoes the rotund laundress; "why of course we've got to tetch 'em, or how'd we get 'em ironed and put in your baskets, ma'am?"
"Do you pretend to say, Mrs. a – Brown – O dear! dear! I am afraid you have ruined all my clothes!"
"Ruined 'em?" quoth Mrs. Brown, coloring up, like a fresh and lively lobster immersed in a pot of highly caloric water.
"I want to know if the things ain't been done this week as well as I ever did 'em, could do 'em, or anybody could do 'em on this mighty yeath (earth), ma'am!"
"Come, come, don't get me flustered, woman," cries the poor, faint Mrs. Pompaliner. "Don't come here to worry me; answer me and go."
"So I can go, ma'am!" said Mrs. Brown, with a vigorous toss of her bullet head.
"Stop, will you understand me, Mrs. – a – "
"Brown, ma'am, Brown's my name. I ain't afeard to let anybody know it!" responded the spunky laundress.
The arrival of Olivia, who ushered in Jessamine, turned the current of affairs.
"Jessamine, your gloves on, dear?"
"Yes'm."
"Then go to my boudoir, open the rose-wood clothes case, bring down the skirts, a dozen or two of the mouchoirs, the laces and hose."
The girl departed, and soon returned with a ponderous paper box, laden with the articles required.
"Now," said Mrs. Pompaliner, "now, Brown, look at those articles; don't you see that they have been touched?"
"Tetched! lord-a-massy, ma'am, how'd you get 'em ironed, folded and brought home, ma'am, without tetching 'em?"
"Olivia, Vanilla, where are you? Jessamine, dear, bring me a fresh handkerchief, ignite a pastile, there's such an odor in the room. Do you smell, Mrs. a – Brown, that horrid lavender or rose, or, or, – do you smell it, Brown?"
"Lord-a-massy, ma'am," said the old woman of suds, "I ollers smell a dreadful smell here; them parfumeries o' yourn, I often tell my Augusty, I wonder them stinkin' – "
"O! O! dear!" cries Mrs. Pompaliner, going off "into a spell;" recovering a little, Mrs. Pompaliner proceeds to state that for some time past, she had been troubled with a presentiment, that her fine clothes had been tampered with after leaving the smoothing iron, and how fatal to her would be the fact of any mortal daring to use, in the remotest manner, any fresh garment or personal apparel of hers! Suspicion had been aroused, the articles before the parties were now diligently examined, when, lo! a spot, not unlike a slight smear of vermilion, was discovered upon a splendid handkerchief – it gave Mrs. P. an electric shock; but, O horror! the next thing turned up was a spangle, big as a half dime, upon one of Mrs. P.'s most superb skirts! This awful revelation, connected with the smell of vile lavender and worse patchouly, upon another piece of woman gear, threw Mrs. Pompaliner into spasms, between the motions of which she gasped:
"You have a daughter, Mrs. Brown?"
"Yes, I have."
"How old is she?"
"About seventeen, ma'am."
"And she a – ?"
"Dances in the theatre, ma'am!"
The whole thing was out: the sacred garments of Mrs. P. had not only been touched by sacrilegious hands, but had had an airing, and smelt the lamps of the play-house! Mrs. Pompaliner was so shocked, that four first-class physicians tended her for a whole season.
Mrs. Brown lost a profitable customer, and well walloped her ballet-nymph daughter Augusty, for attiring herself in the finery of her most possibly particular and sensitive customer! It was awful!
Legal Advice
Old Ben. Franklin said it was his opinion that, between imprisonment and being at large in debt to your neighbor, there was no difference worthy the name of it. Some people have a monstrous sight of courage in debt, more than they have out of it, while we have known some, who, though not afraid to stand fire or water, shook in their very boots – wilted right down, before the frown of a creditor! A man that can dun to death, or stand a deadly dun, possesses talents no Christian need envy; for, next to Lucifer, we look upon the confirmed "diddler" and professional dun, for every ignoble trait in the character of mankind. A friend at our elbow has just possessed us of some facts so mirth-provoking, (to us, not to him,) that we jot them down for the amusement and information of suffering mankind and the rest of creation, who now and then get into a scrimmage with rogues, lawyers and law. And perhaps it may be as well to let the indefatigable tell his own story:
"You see, Cutaway dealt with me, and though he knew I was dead set against crediting anybody, he would insist, and did – get into my books. I let it run along until the amount reached sixty dollars, and Cutaway, instead of stopping off and paying me up, went in deeper! Getting in debt seemed to make him desperate, reckless! One day he came in when I was out; he and his wife look around, and, by George! they select a handsome tea-set, worth twenty dollars, and my fool clerk sends it home.
"'Tell him to charge it!' says Cutaway, to the boy who took the china home; and I did charge it.
"The upshot of the business was, I found out that Cutaway was a confirmed diddler; he got all he wanted, when and where he could, upon the 'charge it' principle, and had become so callous to duns, that his moral compunctions were as tough as sole leather – bullet-proof.
"I was vexed, I was mad, I determined to break one of my 'fixed principles,' and go to law; have my money, goods, or a row! I goes to a lawyer, states my case, gave him a fee and told him to go to work.
"Cutaway, of course, received a polite invitation to step up to Van Nickem's office and learn something to his advantage; and he attended. A few days afterwards I dropped in.
"'Your man's been here,' says Van Nickem, smilingly.
"'Has, eh? Well, what's he done?' said I.
"'O, he acknowledges the debt, says he thinks you are rather hurrying up the biscuits, and thinks you might have sent the bill to him instead of giving it to me for collection,' says the lawyer.
"'Send it to him!' says I. 'Why I sent it fifty times; – sent my clerk until he got ashamed of going, and my boy went so often that his boots got into such a way of going to Cutaway's shop, that he had to change them with his brother, when he was going anywhere else!'
"'He appears to be a clever sort of a fellow,' said Van.
"'He is,' said I, 'the cleverest, most perfectly-at-home diddler in town.'
"'Well,' said Van Nickem, 'Cutaway acknowledges the debt, says he's rather straightened just now, but if you'll give him a little more time, he'll fork up every cent; so if I were you, I'd wait a little and see.'
"Well, I did wait. I didn't want to appear more eager for law than a lawyer, so I waited – three months. At the end of that time, early one Saturday morning, in came Cutaway. 'Aha!' says I, 'you are going to fork now, at last; it's well you come, for I'd been down on you on Monday, bright and early!'"
"You didn't say that to him, did you?" we observed.
"O, bless you, no. I said that to myself, but I met him with a smile, and with a 'how d'ye do, Cutaway?' and in my excitement at the prospect of receiving the $80, which I then wanted the worst kind, I shook hands with him, asked how his family was, and got as familiar and jocular with him as though he was the most cherished friend I had in the world! Well, now what do you suppose was the result of that interview with Cutaway?"
"Paid you a portion, or all of your bill against him, we suppose," was our response.
"Not by a long shot; with the coolness of a pirate he asked me to credit him for a handsome wine-tray, a dozen cut goblets and glasses, and a pair of decanters; he expected some friends from New York that evening, was going to give them a 'set out' at his house, and one of the guests, in consideration of former favors rendered by him, was pledged – being a man of wealth – to loan him enough funds to pay his debts, and take up a mortgage on his residence."
"You laughed at his impudence, and kicked him out into the street?" said we.
"I hope I may be hung if I didn't let him have the goods, and he took them home with him, swearing by all that was good and bad, he would settle with me early the following Monday morning. I saw no more of him for two weeks! I went to Van Nickem's, he laughed at me. The bill was now $100. I was raging. I told Van Nickem I'd have my money out of Cutaway, or I'd advertise him for a villain, swindler, and scoundrel."
"'He'd sue you for libel, and obtain damages,' said Van.
"'Then I'll horsewhip him, sir, within an inch of his life, in the open street!' said I, in a heat.
"'You might rue that,' said Van. 'He'd sue you for an assault, and give you trouble and expense.'
"'Then I suppose I can do nothing, eh? – the law being made for the benefit of such villains!'
"'We will arrest him,' said Van.
"'Well, then what?' said I.
"'We will haul him up to the bull ring, we will have the money, attach his property, goods or chattels, or clap him in jail, sir!' said Van Nickem, with an air of determination.
"I felt relieved; the hope of putting the rascal in jail, I confess, was dearer to me than the $100. I told Van to go it, give the rascal jessy, and Van did; but after three weeks' vexatious litigation, Cutaway went to jail, swore out, and, to my mortification, I learned that he had been through that sort of process so often that, like the old woman's skinned eels, he was used to it, and rather liked the sensation than otherwise! Well, saddled with the costs, foiled, gouged, swindled, and laughed at, you may fancy my feelinks, as Yellow Plush remarks."
"So you lost the $100 – got whipped, eh?" we remarked.
"No, sir," said our litigious friend. "I cornered him, I got old Cutaway in a tight place at last, and that's the pith of the transaction. Cutaway, having swindled and shaved about half the community with whom he had any transactions, – got his affairs all fixed smooth and quiet, and with his family was off for California. I got wind of it, – Van Nickem and I had a conference.
"'We'll have him,' says Van. 'Find out what time he sails, where the vessel is, &c.; lay back until a few hours before the vessel is to cut loose, then go down, get the fellow ashore if you can, talk to him, soft soap him, ask him if he won't pay if he has luck in California, &c., and so on, and when you've got him a hundred yards from the vessel, knock him down, pummel him well; I'll have an officer ready to arrest both of you for breach of the peace; when you are brought up, I'll have a charge made out against Cutaway for something or other, and if he don't fork out and clear, I'm mistaken,' said Van. I followed his advice to the letter; I pummelled Cutaway well; we were taken up and fined, and Cutaway was in a great hurry to say but little and get off. But Van and the writ appeared. Cutaway looked streaked – he was alarmed. In two hours' time he disgorged not only my bill, but a bill of forty dollars costs! He then cut for the ship, the meanest looking white man you ever saw!"
If Mr. Cutaway don't take the force of that moral, salt won't save him.
Wonders of the Day
The "firm" who save a hogshead of ink, annually, by not allowing their clerks and book-keepers to dot their i's or cross their t's, are now bargaining (with the old school gentlemen who split a knife that cost a fourpence, in skinning a flea for his hide and tallow!) for a two-pronged pen, which cuts short business letters and printed bill-heads, by enabling a clerk to write on both sides of the paper, two lines at a time. Great improvement on the old method, ain't it?
"Don't Know You, Sir!"
We shall never forget, and always feel proud of the fact, that we knew so great an every-day Plato as Davy Crockett. Had the old Colonel never uttered a better idea than that everlasting good motto – "Be sure you're right, then go ahead!" his wisdom would stand a pretty good wrestle with tide and time, before his standing, as a man of genius, would pass to oblivion – be washed out in Lethe's waters. We remember hearing Col. Crockett relate, during a "speech," a short time before he lost his life at the Alamo, in Texas – a little incident, of his being taken up in New Orleans, one night, by a gen d'arme– lugged to the calaboose, and kept there as an out-and-out "hard case," not being able to find any body, hardly, that knew him, and being totally unable to reconcile the chief of police to the fact that he was the identical Davy Crockett, or any body else, above par! "If you want to find out your 'level,' —ad valorem, wake up some morning, noon or night —where nobody knows you!" said the Colonel, "and if you ever feel so essentially chawed up, raw, as I did in the calaboose, the Lord pity you!"
There was a "modern instance" of Colonel Crockett's "wise saw," in the case of a certain Philadelphia millionaire, who was in the habit of carting himself out, in a very ancient and excessively shabby gig; which, in consequence of its utter ignorance of the stable-boy's brush, sponge or broom, and the hospitalities the old concern nightly offered the hens – was not exactly the kind of equipage calculated to win attention or marked respect, for the owner and driver. The old millionaire, one day in early October, took it into his head to ride out and see the country. Taking an early start, the old gentleman, and his old bob-tailed, frost-bitten-looking horse, with that same old shabby gig, about dusk, found themselves under the swinging sign of a Pennsylvania Dutch tavern, in the neighborhood of Reading. As nobody bestirred themselves to see to the traveller, he put his very old-fashioned face and wig outside of the vehicle, and called —
"Hel-lo! hos-e-lair? Landlord?"
Leisurely stalking down the steps, the Dutch hostler advanced towards the queer and questionable travelling equipage.
"Vel, vot you vont, ah?"
"Vat sal I vant? I sal vant to put oup my hoss, vis-ze stab'l, viz two pecks of oats and plenty of hay, hos-e-lair."
"Yaw," was the laconic grunt of the hostler, as he proceeded to unhitch old bald-face from his rigging.
"Stop one little," said the traveller. "I see 'tis very mosh like to rain, to-night; put up my gig in ze stab'l, too."
"Boosh, tonner and blitzen, der rain not hurt yer ole gig!"
"I pay you for vat you sal do for me, mind vat I sal say, sair, if you pleaze."
The hostler, very surlily, led the traveller's weary old brute to the stable; but, prior to carrying out the orders of the traveller, he sought the landlord, to know if it would pay to put up the shabby concern, and treat the old horse to a real feed of hay and oats, without making some inquiries into the financial situation of the old Frenchman.
The landlord, with a country lawyer and a neighboring farmer, were at the Bar, one of those old-fashioned slatted coops, in a corner, peculiar to Pennsylvania, discussing the merits of a law suit, seizure of the property, &c., of a deceased tiller of the soil, in the vicinity. Busily chatting, and quaffing their toddy, the entrance of the poor old traveller was scarcely noticed, until he had divested himself of his old, many-caped cloak, and demurely taken a seat in the room. The hostler having reappeared, and talked a little Dutch to the host, that worthy turned to the traveller —
"Good even'ns, thravel'r!"
"Yes, sair;" pleasantly responded the Frenchman, "a little."
"You got a hoss, eh?" continued the landlord.
"Yes, sair, I vish ze hostlair to give mine hoss plenty to eat – plenty hay, plenty oats, plenty watair, sair."
"Yaw," responded the landlord, "den, Jacob, give'm der oats, and der hay, and der water;" and, with this brief direction to his subordinate, the landlord turned away from the way-worn traveller to resume his conversation with his more, apparently, influential friends. The old Frenchman very patiently waited until the discussion should cease, and the landlord's ear be disengaged, that he might be apprized of the fact that travellers had stomachs, and that of the old French gentleman was highly incensed by long delay, and more particularly by the odorous fumes of roast fowls, ham and eggs, &c., issuing from the inner portion of the tavern.
"Landlord, I vil take suppair, if you please," said he.
"Yaw; after dese gentlemans shall eat der suppers, den somesing will be prepared for you."
"Sair!" said the old Frenchman, firing up; "I vill not vait for ze shentilmen; I vant my suppair now, directly – right away; I not vait for nobody, sair!"
"If you no like 'em, den you go off, out mine house," answered the old sour krout, "you old barber!"
"Bar-bair!" gasped the old Frenchman, in suppressed rage. "Sair, I vill go no where, I vill stay here so long, by gar, as – as – as I please, sair!"
"Are you aware, sir," interposed the legal gentleman, "that you are rendering gross and offensive, malicious and libellous, scandalous and burglarious language to this gentleman, in his own domicile, with malice prepense and aforethought, and a – "
"Pooh! pooh! pooh! for you, sair!" testily replied the Frenchman.
"Pooh? To me, sir? Me, sir?" bullyingly echoed Blackstone.
"Yes, sair – pooh —pooh! von geese, sair!"
It were vain to try to depict the rage of wounded pride, the insolence of a travelling barber had stirred up in the very face of the man of law, logic, and legal lore. He swelled up, blowed and strutted about like a miffed gobbler in a barn yard! He tried to cork down his rage, but it bursted forth —
"You – you – you infernal old frog-eating, soap and lather, you – you – you smoke-dried, one-eyed,2 poor old wretch, you, if it wasn't for pity's sake, I'd have you taken up and put in the county jail, for vagrancy, I would, you poverty-stricken old rascal!"
"Jacob!" bawled the landlord, to his sub., "bring out der ole hoss again, pefore he die mit de crows, in mine stable; now, you ole fool, you shall go vay pout your bishenish mit nossin to eat, mit yer hoss too!" said the landlord, with an evident rush of blood and beer to his head!
"Oh, veri well," patiently answered the old Frenchman, "veri well, sair, I sal go – but," – shaking his finger very significantly at the landlord and lawyer, "I com' back to-morrow morning, I buy dis prop-er-tee; you, sir, sal make de deed in my name – I kick you out, sair, (to the landlord,) and to you (the lawyer), I sal like de goose. Booh!"
With this, the poor old Frenchman started for his gig, amid the "Haw! haw! haw! and ha! ha! he! he!" of the landlord and lawyer. "That for you," said the Frenchman, as he gave the surly Dutchman-hostler a real half-dollar, took the dirty "ribbons" and drove off. Now, the farmer, one of the three spectators present, had quietly watched the proceedings, and being gifted with enough insight into human nature to see something more than "an old French barber" in the person and manner of the traveller; and, moreover, being interested in the Tavern property, followed the Frenchman; overtaking him, he at once offered him the hospitalities of his domicile, not far distant, where the traveller passed a most comfortable night, and where his host found out that he was entertaining no less a pecuniary miracle of his time —than Stephen Girard.
Early next morning, old Stephy, in his old and shady gig, accompanied by his entertainer, rode over to the two owners of the Tavern property, and with them sought the lawyer, the deeds were made out, the old Frenchman drew on his own Bank for the $13,000, gave the farmer a ten years' lease upon the place, paid the lawyer for his trouble, and as that worthy accompanied the millionaire to the door, and was very obsequiously bowing him out, old Stephy turned around on the steps, and looking sharp – with his one eye upon the lawyer, says he —
"Sair! Pooh! pooh! —Booh!" off he rode for the Tavern, where he and the landlord had a haze, the landlord was notified to leave, short metre; and being fully revenged for the insult paid his millions, old Stephen Girard, the great Philadelphia financier, rode back to where he was better used for his money, and evidently better satisfied than ever, that money is mighty when brought to bear upon an object!