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 "highland 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."
I beckoned the man to step aside, in the Senate Chamber.
"Now, sir," said I, "you will please inform me, who the devil do you take me for?"
"Oh, I knew who you were, the moment you came in, sir," said he, with a very knowing leer out of his half-squinting eyes.
"Did you? Well then I must certainly give you credit for devilish keen perception; but, if it's a fair question," I continued, "what do you mean by fixing a platform for my designs? You don't think I'm going to fly, jump or deliver orations from the cupola, do you?"
"No, I don't; but you're to draw a grand panorama of Boston, ain't you?"
"Me?"
"Yes, you; ain't your name Mr. Banvard?"
"Oh, yes, yes – I understand – you've found me out, but keep dark – mum's the word – you understand?" said I, winkingly.
"Yes, sir; I'll fix it all right; you'll want the platform outside, I guess."
"Yes; out with it, and keep dark until I come!"
I skeeted down them steps into the Common to let off my corked up risibilities. – Whether the man actually did prepare a platform for my designs, or whether Banvard ever went to take his designs there, I am unable to say, as I went South a few days afterward, and did not return for some time.