Dog Day
I used to like dogs – a puppy love that I got bravely over, since once upon a time, when a Dutch bottier, in the city of Charleston, S. C., put an end to my poor Sue, – the prettiest and most devoted female bull terrier specimen of the canine race you ever did see, I guess. My Sue got into the wrong pew, one morning; the crout-eating cordwainer and she had a dispute – he, the bullet-headed ball of wax, ups with his revolver, and – I was dogless! I don't think dogs a very profitable investment, and every man weak enough to keep a dog in a city, ought to pay for the luxury handsomely – to the city authorities. Some people have a great weakness for dogs. Some fancy gentlemen seem to think it the very apex of highcockalorumdom to have the skeleton of a greyhound and highly polished collar – following them through crowded thorough-fares. Some young ladies, especially those of doubtful ages, delight in caressing lumps of white, cotton-looking dumpy dogs and toting them around, to the disgust of the lookers-on – with all the fondness and blind infatuation of a mamma with her first born, bran new baby. Wherever you see any quantity of white and black loafers– Philadelphia, for instance, you'll see rafts of ugly and wretched looking curs. Boz says poverty and oysters have a great affinity; in this country, for oysters read dogs. Who has not, that ever travelled over this remarkable country, had occasion to be down on dogs? Who that has ever lain awake, for hours at a stretch, listening to a blasted cur, not worth to any body the powder that would blow him up – but has felt a desire to advocate the dog-law, so judiciously practised in all well-regulated cities? Who that ever had a sneaking villanous cur slip up behind and nip out a patch of your trowsers, boot top and calf – the size of an oyster, but has felt for the pistol, knife or club, and sworn eternal enmity to the whole canine race? Who that ever had a big dog jump upon your Russia-ducks and patent leathers – just as he had come out of a mud-puddle, but has nearly forfeited his title to Christianity, by cursing aloud in his grief – like a trooper? Well, I have, for one of a thousand.
The fact of the business is, with precious few exceptions, dogs are a nuisance, whatever Col. Bill Porter of the "Spirit," and his thousand and one dog-fancying and inquiring friends, may think to the contrary; and the man that will invest fifty real dollars in a dog-skin, has got a tender place in his head, not healed up as it ought to be.
While "putting up," t'other day, at the Irving House, New York, I heard a good dog story that will bear repeating, I think. A sporting gent from the country, stopping at the Irving, wanted a dog, a good dog, not particular whether it was a spaniel, hound, pointer, English terrier or Butcher's bull. So a friend advised him to put an advertisement in the Sun and Spirit of the Times, which he did, requesting the "fancy" to bring along the right sort of dog to the Irving House, room number – .
The advertisement appeared simultaneously in the two papers on Saturday. There were but few calls that day; but on Monday, the "Spirit" having been freely imbibed by its numerous readers over Sunday, the dog men were awake, and then began the scene. The occupant of room number – had scarcely got up, before a servant appeared with a man and a dog.
"Believe, sir, you advertised for a dog?" quoth he with the animal.
"Yes," was the response of the country fancy man, who, by the way, it must be premised, was rather green as to the quality and prices of fancy dogs.
"What kind of a dog do you call that?" he added.
"A greyhound, full blooded, sir."
"Full blooded?" says the country sportsman. "Well, he don't look as though he had much blood in him. He'd look better, wouldn't he, mister, if he was full bellied – looks as hollow as a flute!"
This remark, for a moment, rather staggered the dog man, who first looked at his dog and then at the critic. Choking down his dander, or disgust, says he:
"That's the best greyhound you ever saw, sir."
"Well, what do you ask for him?"
"Seventy-five dollars."
"What? Seventy-five dollars for that dog frame?"
"I guess you're a fool any way," says the dog man: "you don't know a hound from a tan yard cur, you jackass! Phe-e-wt! come along, Jerry!" and the man and dog disappeared.
The man with the hollow dog had not stepped out two minutes, before the servant appeared with two more dog merchants; both had their specimens along, and were invited to "step in."
"Ah! that's a dog!" ejaculated the country sportsman, the moment his eyes lit upon the massive proportions of a thundering edition of Mt. St. Bernard.
"That is a dog, sir," was the emphatic response of the dog merchant.
"How much do you ask for that dog?" quoth the sportsman.
"Well," says the trader, patting his dog, "I thought of getting about fifty-five dollars for him, but I – "
"Stop," interrupted the country sportsman, "that's enough – he won't suit, no how; I can't go them figures on dogs." The man and dog left growling, and the next man and dog were brought up.
"Why, that's a queer dog, mister, ain't it? 'Tain't got no hair on it; why, where in blazes did you raise such a dog as that; been scalded, hain't it?" says the rural sportsman, examining the critter.
"Scalded?" echoed the dog man, looking no ways amiable at the speaker, "why didn't you never see a Chinese terrier, afore?"
"No, and if that's one, I don't care about seeing another. Why, he looks like a singed possum?"
"Well, you're a pooty looking country jake, you are, to advertise for a dog, and don't know Chiney terrier from a singed possum?"
Another rap at the door announced more dogs, and as the man opened it to get out with his singed possum, a genus who evidently "killed for Keyser," rushed in with a pair of the ugliest-looking – savage – snub-nosed, slaughter-house pups, "the fancy" might ever hope to look upon! As these meat-axish canines made a rush at the very boot tops of the country sportsman, he "shied off," pretty perceptibly.
"Are you de man advertised for de dogs, sa-a-ay? You needn't be afraid o' dem; come a'here, lay da-own, Balty – day's de dogs, mister, vot you read of!"
"Ain't they rather fierce?" asked the rural sportsman, eyeing the ugly brutes.
"Fierce? Better believe dey are – show 'em a f-f-ight, if you want to see 'em go in for de chances! You want to see der teeth?"
"No, I guess not," timidly responded the sportsman; "they are not exactly what I want," he continued.
"What," says Jakey, "don't want 'em? Why, look a'here, you don't go for to say dat you 'spect I'm agoin' for to fetch d-dogs clean down here, for nuthin', do you, sa-a-ay? Cos if you do, I'll jis drop off my duds and lam ye out o' yer boots!"
Jakey was just beginning to square, when his belligerent propositions were suddenly nipped in the bud, by the servant opening the door and ushering in more dogs; and no sooner did Jakey's pups see the new-comers, than they went in; a fight ensued – both of Jakey's pups lighting down on an able-bodied, big-bone sorrel dog, who appeared perfectly happy in the transaction, and having a tremendous jaw of his own, made the bones of the pups crack with the high pressure he gave them. Of course a dog fight is the cue for a man fight, and in the wag of a dead lamb's tail, Jakey and the proprietor of the sorrel dog had a dispute. Jakey was attitudinizing a la "the fancy," when the sorrel dog man – who, like his dog, was got up on a liberal scale of strength and proportions – walked right into Jakey's calculations, and whirled him in double flip-flaps on to the wash-stand of the rural sportsman's room! Our sporting friend viewed the various combatants more in bodily fear than otherwise, and was making a break for the door, to clear himself, when, to his horror and amazement, he found the entry beset by sundry men and boys, and any quantity of dogs – dogs of every hue, size, and description. At that moment the chawed-up pups of Jakey, and their equally used-up master, came a rushing down stairs – another fight ensued on the stairs between Jakey's dogs and some others, and then a stampede of dogs – mixing up of dogs – tangling of ropes and straps – cursing and hurraing, and such a time generally, as is far better imagined than described. The boarders hearing such a wild outcry – to say nothing of the yelps of dogs, came out of their various rooms, and retired as quickly, to escape the stray and confused dogs, that now were ki-yi-ing, yelping, and pitching all over the house! By judicious marshalling of the servants – broom-sticks, rolling-pins and canes, the dogs and their various proprietors were ejected, and order once more restored; the country sportsman seized his valise, paid his bills and "vamosed the ranche," and ever after it was incorporated in the rules of the Irving, that gentlemen are strictly prohibited from dealing in dogs while "putting up" in that house.
Amateur Gardening
"I don't see what in sin's become of them dahlias I set out this Spring," said Tapehorn, a retired slop-shop merchant, to his wife, one morning a month ago, as he hunted in vain among the weeds and grass of his garden, to see where or when his two-dollars-a-piece dahlia roots were going to appear.
"Can't think what's the matter with 'em," he continued. "Goldblossom said they were the finest roots he ever sold – ought to be up and in bloom – two months ago."
"Oh, pa, I forgot to tell you," said Miss Tapehorn, "that our Patrick, one morning last Spring, was digging in the garden there, and he turned up some things that looked just like sweet potatoes; mother and I looked at them, and thought they were potatoes those Mackintoshes had left undug when they moved away last winter!"
"Well, you-a – " gasped Tapehorn.
"Well, pa, ma and I had them all dug up and cooked, and they were the meanest tasting things we ever knew, and we gave them all to the pigs!"
Tapehorn looked like a man in the last stages of disgust, and jamming his fists down into his pockets, he walked into the house, muttering:
"Tut, tut, tut! – thirty-two dollars and the finest lot of dahlias in the world —gone to the pigs!"
The Two Johns at the Tremont
It is somewhat curious that more embarrassments, and queer contre temps do not take place in the routine of human affairs, when we find so many persons floating about of one and the same name. It must be shocking to be named John Brown, troublesome to be called John Thompson, but who can begin to conceive the horrors of that man's situation, who has at the baptismal font received the title of John Smith?
Now it only wants a slight accident, the most trivial occurrence of fate – the meeting of two or three persons of the same name, or of great similarity of name, to create the most singular and even ludicrous circumstances and tableaux. One of these affairs came off at the Tremont House, some time since. One Thomas Johns, a blue-nose Nova-Scotian – a man of "some pumpkins" and "persimmons" at home, doubtless, put up for a few days at the Tremont, and about the same time one John Thomas, a genuine son of John Bull, just over in one of the steamers, took up his quarters at the same respectable and worthy establishment.
Thomas Johns was a linen draper, sold silks, satinets, linen, and dimities, at his establishment in the Provinces, and was also a politician, and "went on" for the part of magistrate, occasionally. John Thomas was a retired wine-merchant, and, having netted a bulky fortune, he took it into his head to travel, and as naturally as he despised, and as contemptuously as he looked upon this poor, wild, unsophisticated country of ours, he nevertheless condescended to come and look at us.
Well, there they were, Thomas Johns, and John Thomas; one was "roomed" in the north wing, the other in the south wing. Thomas Johns went out and began reconnoitering among the Yankee shop-keepers. John Thomas, having a fortnight's pair of sea legs on, and full of bile and beer, laid up at his lodgings, and passed the first three days in "hazing around" the servants, and blaspheming American manners and customs.
Old John was quietly snoring off his bottle after a sumptuous Tremont dinner, when a repeated rap, rap, rap at his door aroused him.
"What are you – at?" growls John.
"It's ma, zur?" says one of the Milesian servants.
"Blast yer hies, what want yer?" again growls John.
"If ye plaze, zur, there's a young man below wishes to see you," says the servant.
"Ha, tell 'im to clear out!" John having predestinated the "young man," he gave an apoplectic snort, relapsed into his lethargy, and the servant whirled down into the rotunda, and informed the "young man" what the gentleman desired.
"He did, eh?" says the young man, who looked as if he might be a clerk in an importing house. The young man left, in something of a high dudgeon.
"What'r yer at now?" roared John Thomas, a second time, roused by the servant's rat-tat-too.
"It's a gentleman wants to see yez's, zur."
"Tell him to go to the d – !" and John snored again.
"Is John in?" asks the gentleman, as the servant returns.
"Mister Thomas did yez mane, zur?"
"No, yes, it is (looking at his tablets) same thing, I suppose; Thomas Johns," says the gentleman.
"I belave it's right, zur," says the servant.
"Well, what did he say?"
"Faith, I think he's not in a good humor, betwane us, zur; he says yez may go to the divil!"
"Did he? Well, that's polite, any how – invite a gentleman to dine with him, and then meet him with such language as that. The infernal 'blue nose,' I'll pull it, I'll tweak it until he'll roar like a calf!" and off went "the gentleman," hot as No. 6.
"I belave he's not in, zur," says the same servant, answering another inquiry for John Thomas, or Thomas Johns, the carriage driver was not certain which.
"Oh, ho!" says the servant, "it's a ride ould John's going fur to take till himself, and didn't want any callers." Reaching John's door, he began his tattoo.
"Be hang'd to ye, what'r ye at now?" growls John, partly up and dressed.
"The carriage is here, zur."
"What carriage is that?" growls John, continuing his toilet.
"I don't know, zur; I'll go down and sae the number, if ye plaze."
"Thunder and tommy! What do I care for the number? Go tell the carriage – "
"To go to the divil, zur?" says the servant, in anticipation of the command.
"No, you bog-trotter, go tell the carriage to wait."
The servant went down, and John continued his toilet, muttering —
"Ah, some of their haccommodations, I expect; these American landlords, as they style 'em in these infernal wild woods 'ere, do manage to give a body tolerable sort of haccommodations; ha, but they'll take care to look hout for the dollars. I don't know, tho', these fellers 'ere appear tolerably clever; want me to ride hout, I suppose, and see some of their Yankee lions. Haw! haw! Lions! I wonder what they'd say hif they saw Lun'un, and looked at St. Paul's once!"
Getting through his toilet – and it takes an Englishman as long to fix his stiff cravat and that stiffer and stauncher shirt-collar, and rub his hat, than a Frenchman to rig out tout ensemble, to say nothing of the gallons of water and dozens of towels he uses up in the operation – John found the carriage waiting; he asked no questions, but jumped in.
"Isn't there some others beside yourself going out, sir?" says the driver, supposing he had the right man, or one of them.
"No; drive off – where are you going to drive me?"
"Mount Auburn, sir, the carriage was ordered for."
"Humph! Some of the battle-grounds, I suppose," John grunts to himself, falls into a fit of English doggedness, and the coach drives off.
Thomas Johns made little or no noise or confusion in the house, consequently he was not known to the servants, and very little known to the clerks. John Thomas was another person – he was all fuss and feathers. He kept his bell ringing, and the servants rushing for towels and water, water and towels, boots and beer, beer and boots, the English papers, maps of America, &c., without cessation. He was John Thomas and Thomas Johns, one and indivisible.
John got his ride, and returned to the hotel sulkier than ever; and by the time he got unrobed of his pea-jackets and huge shawls about his burly neck, he was telegraphed by a servant to come down; there was a gentleman below on business with him. John foreswore business, but the gentleman must see him, and up he came for that purpose. His unmistakable mug told he was "an officer."
"I've a bill against you, sir, $368,20. Must be paid immediately!" said the presenter, peremptorily.
John was thunderstruck.
"Me, and be hanged to ye!" says John, getting his breath.
"Yes, sir, for goods packed at Smith & Brown's, for Nova Scotia. The bill was to be paid this morning, as you agreed, but you told the clerk to go to the d – l! Won't do, that sort of work, here. Pay the bill, or you must go with me!"
John, when he found himself in custody, swore it was some infernal Yankee scheme to gouge him, and he started for the clerk's office, below, to have some explanation. As John and the officer reached the rotunda, a gentleman steps up behind John, and gives his nose a first-rate lug. They clinched, the bystanders and servants interposed, and John and his assailant were parted, and by this time the nose puller discovered he had the wrong man by the nose!
"Is your name Thomas Johns?" says the nose puller.
"Blast you, no!"
"Who pays this bill for the carriage, if your name ain't Johns?" says a man with a bill for the carriage hire.
"I allers heard as ow you Yan-gees were inquisitive, and sharp after the dollars, and I'm 'anged if you ain't awful. My name's John Thomas, from Lun'un, bound back again in the next steamer. Now who's got any thing against me?"
Thomas Johns came in at this climax, an explanation ensued, John was relieved of his embarrassment, and all were finally satisfied, except John Thomas, who, venting a few bottles of his spleen on every body and all things – Americans especially – took to his bed and beer, and snorted for a week.
The Yankee in a Boarding School
"Well, squire, as I wer' tellin' on ye, when I went around pedlin' notions, I met many queer folks; some on 'em so darn'd preoud and sassy, they wouldn't let a feller look at 'em; a-n-d 'd shut their doors and gates, bang into a feller's face, jest as ef a Yankee pedler was a pizen sarpint! Then there waa-s t'other kind o' human critters, so pesky poor, or 'nation stingy, they'd pinch a fourpence till it'd squeal like a stuck pig. Ye-e-s, I do swow, I've met some critters so dog-ratted mean, that ef you had sot a steel trap onder their beds, a-n-d baited it with three cents, yeou'd a cotch ther con-feoun-ded souls afore mornin'!"
"Massy sakes!" responded the squire.
"Fact! by ginger!" echoed the ex-pedler.
"Well, go on, Ab," said the squire, giving his pipe another 'charge,' and lighting up for the yarn Absalom Slamm had promised the gals, soon as the quilt was out and refreshments were handed around.
"Go on, Ab – let's hear abeout that scrape yeou had with the school marm and her gals."
"Wall, I will, squire; gals, spread yeourselves areound and squat; take care o' yeour corset strings, and keep deth-ly still. Wall; neow, yeou all sot? Hain't none o' ye been in the pedlin' business, I guess; wall, no matter, tho' it's dread-ful pleasant sometimes: then again at others, 'taint."
"Go on, Ab, go on," said the squire.
"Ye-e-s; wall, as I was saying, 'beout tradin', none o' yeou ever been in the tradin' way? Wall, it deon't matter a cent; as I was agoin' to say, I had hard, hard luck one season – got clean busted all tew smash! O-o-o! it was dre-a-a-dful times; jest abeout the time Gineral Jackson clapped his we-toe on the hull o' the banks, kersock. Wall, yeou see, I got broke all tew flinders. My ole hoss died, the sun and rain beat up my wagon, I sold eout my notions tew a feller that paid me all in ceounter-fit money, and then he dug eout, as Parson Dodge says, to undiskivered kedn'try.
"There was only one way abeout it; I was beound to dew somethin', instead o' goin' to set deown and blubber; and as I layed stretched eout in bed one Sunday morning, in Marm Smith's tavern, in the cockloft among the old stuff, I spies a darn'd ole consarn that took my fancy immazin'! As Deb Brown said, when she 'sperienced rele-gen, I felt my sperrets raisin' me clean eout o' bed, and eout I beounced, like a pea in a hot skillet. Deown I goes to Marm Smith; the ole lady was dressed up to death in her Sunday-go-to-meetin's, and jest as preoud and sassy as her darn'd ole skin ceould heould in.
"'Marm Smith,' sez I, 'yeou hain't got no ole stuff yeou deon't want tew sell nor nuthin', dew ye?'
"'Ab Slamm,' sez she, plantin' her thumbs on her hip joints, and as the milishey officer ses on trainin' day, comin' at me, 'right face,' she spread herself like a clapboard. 'Ab Slamm,' sez she, 'what on airth possesses yeou to talk o' tradin' on the Sabbath?'
"'Wall,' sez I, 'Marm Smith, yeou needn't take on so 'beout it; I guess a feller kin ax a question witheout tradin' or breakin' the Sabbath all tew smash, either! Neow,' says I, 'yeou got some ole plunder up ther in the cockloft, where yeou stuck me to sleep; 'tain't much use to yeou, and one article I see I want to trade fur.'
"Wall, we didn't trade 'zactly. Marm Smith, yeou see, got dre-e-e-adful relejus 'beout that time – wouldn't let her gals draw ther breth scacely, and shot her roosters all up in the cellar every Sunday. Fact, by ginger! Wall, yeou see, Marm Smith were agin tradin' on Sunday, but she sed I might arrange it with Ben, her barkeeper, and so I got the instrument, any heow."
"What was it, Ab?" inquired the squire.
"Massy sakes, tell us!" says the gals.
"I sha'n't dew it, till I tell the hull abeout it," Ab replied, rather choosing, like Captain Cuttle, to break the gist of his information into small chunks, and so make it the more telling and comparatively interesting.
"When I got the instrument, and paid Marm Smith my board bill, I wer in possession of a cash capital of jest three fo'pences. I took my jack-knife, and unjinted the instrument, cleaned it off, then wrapped the different sections up in a paper, put the hull in my little yaller trunk, and dug eout. When I got clean eout o' sight and hearin' of everybody I'd ever hear'n tell on, I stopped r-i-g-h-t in my track. My cash capital wer gone, my mortal remains were holler as a flute, and my old trunk had worn a hole clean through the shoulder o' my best Sunday coat. I put up, and sez I tew the landlord:
"'Squire, what sort o' place is this for a sheow?'
"'For a sh-e-ow?' sez he.
"'Ye-e-e-s,' sez I.
"'What a' yeou got to sh-e-o-w?' sez he.
"'The most wonderful instrument ever inwent-'d,' sez I.
"'What's 't fur?' sez he.
"'For the wimen,' sez I.
"'O! sez he, lookin' alfired peart and smeart, as tho' he'd seen a flock o' l'fants; 'quack doctor, I s'pose, eh?'
"'No, I ben't a quack doctor, nuther,' sez I, priming up at the insin-i-wa-tion.
"'Wall, what on airth hev yeou got, any heow?' sez he.
"When he 'poligized in that sort o' way, in course I up and told him the full perticklers 'beout a wonderful instrument I had for the ladies and wimen folks. A-n-d heow I wanted to sheow it before some o' the female sim-i-nar-ries, and give a lectoor on't.
"'By bunker!' sez he, 'then yeou've cum jest teou the spot; three miles up the road is the great Jargon Institoot, 'spressly for young ladies, wher they teach 'em the 'rethmetic, French scollopin', and High-tall-ion curlycues; dancin', tight-lacin', hair-dressin', and so forth, with the use of curlin' irons, forty pinanners, and parfumeries chuck'd in.'
"'Yeou deon't say so?' sez I.
"'Yes, I doos,' sez he; and then yeou had orter seen me make streaks fur the Jargon Institoot.
"I feound the place, knocked on the door, and a feller all starch'd up, lookin' cruel nice, kem and opened the door. I axed if the marm were in. Then he wanted tew kneow which of 'em I wanted tew see. 'The head marm of the Institoot,' sez I. 'Please to give me yeour keard,' sez he. 'You be darn'd,' sez I; 'I'd have yeou know, mister,' sez I, 'I don't deal in keards– never did, nuther!'
"The feller show'd a heap o' ivory, and brought deown the head marm. It weould a' dun Marm Smith's ole heart good to seen this dre-e-a-d-ful pius critter. She looked mighty nice, a-n-d she scolloped reound, and beow'd and cut an orful quantity o' capers, when I ondid my business to her. I went on and told her heow in course o' travel —
"'In furrin pearts?' sez she.
"'Yes,' sez I – 'I kim across a great instrument,' sez I. 'It was well known to the wimen and ladies o' the past gin-i-rations,' sez I.
"'The an-shants?' sez she.
"'Yes, marm,' sez I. Then she axed me wether it wer a wind instrer-ment or a stringed instrer-ment. A-n-d I told her it wer a stringed instrer-ment, but went on the hurdy-gurdy pren-cipl', with a crank or treddle. But what I moost dwelt on, as the ox-ion-eer sez, were the great combinations of the instrer-ment, a-n-d I piled it up dre-e-e-adful! I told the marm I wanted to git the thing patented, and put before the people – the wimen and ladies in per-tick'ler – so that every gal in the univarsal world could play upon it – exercise her hands, strengthen her arms and chist, give her form a nater-al de-welop-ment, and so make the hull grist o' wimen critters useful, as well as or-namental, as my instrer-ment was a useful necessity; for while it lent grace and beauty to the female form, and gin forth fust rate music, it was par-fect-ly scriptooral; it ceould be made to clothe the naked and feed the hon-gry. My il-o-quince had the marm. She 'greed to buy one of my machines straight fur use of her Institoot– each school-gal to 'put in' by next day, when I wer to bring the instrer-ment, get my $40, and deliver a lectoor on it. Next mornin', bright and early, I wer there; the puss wer made up, and the gals nigh abeout bilin' over with curiosity to see my wonderful hand-limberer, arm-strengthener, chist-expander, female-beautifier, and univarsal musical machine! When they all got assembled, I ondid the machine; they wer still as death! When I sot it up, they wer breathless with wonderment; when I started it, they gin a gineral screech of delight. Then I sot deown and played 'em old hund'erd, and every gal in the room vowed right eout she'd have one made straight! O-o-o! yeou'd a died to seen the excitement that instrer-ment made in Jargon Institoot. The head marm wanted my ortergraff, and each o' the gals a lock o' my hair. But just then, a confeounded ole woolly-headed Virginny nigger wench, cook o' the Jargon Institoot, kem in, and the moment she clapped her ole eyes on my inwention, she roared reight eout, 'O! de Lud, ef dar ain't one de ole Virginny spinnin' wheels!' I kinder had bus'ness somewheres else 'beout that time! I took with a leaving!"