CHAPTER XVIII. THE ORDINARY OF ALL NATIONS
Making my way with difficulty through the crowd which filled the hall of the house, and which consisted of purchasers, newsvenders, reporters, printers' devils, and others interested in the “Picayune,” all eagerly discussing the news of the day, I reached a small back office, where, having knocked timidly twice, I was desired to enter.
A man seated at a coarse deal table was cutting out paragraphs from various newspapers, which, as he threw them at either side of him, were eagerly caught up by two or three ragged urchins who were in waiting behind him. He looked up at me as I entered, and roughly asked what I wanted.
“I have seen an advertisement in your paper, headed, 'Expedition to Texas '———”
“Upstairs,—No. 3,—two-pair back,” said he, and went on with his labor.
I hesitated, hoping he might add something; but seeing that he had said all he intended or was likely to say, I slowly withdrew.
“Upstairs, then,—No. 3,—two-pair back,” said I to myself, and mounted, with the very vaguest notions of what business I had when I got there. There was no difficulty in finding the place; many others were hastening towards it at the same time; and, in company with some half-dozen very ill-favored and meanly clad fellows, I entered a large room, where about forty men were assembled, who stood in knots or groups, talking in low and confidential tones together.
“Is there a committee to-day?” asked one of those who came in with me.
“Business is over,” said another.
“And is the lottery drawn?”
“Ay, every ticket, except one or two.”
“Who's won Butcher's mare?”
“Tell us that if you can,” said a huge fellow, with a red worsted comforter round his throat; “that's exactly what we want to know.”
“Well, I'm whipped if it ain't among those numbers,” said a pale man with one eye, “and I 'll give fifty dollars for one of 'em.”
“You would, would you?” said another, jeering. “Lord, how soft you 've grown! Why, she's worth five hundred dollars, that 'ere beast!”
“Butcher gave a mustang and two hundred and seventy for her,” cried another.
“Well, she broke his neck, for all that,” growled out he of the red neckcloth; “you'll see that some chap will win her that don't want a beast, and she 'll be sold for a trifle.”
“And there's a free passage to Galveston, grub and liquor, in the same ticket,” said another,—“an almighty sight of luck for one man!”
“It ain't me, anyhow,” said red cravat; and then, with a tremendous oath, added: “I've been a putter in at these Texas lotteries for four years, and never won anything but a blessed rosary.”
“What became of it, Dick?” said another, laughing.
“The beads fitted my rifle-bore, and I fired 'em away when lead was scarce.”
Various discussions followed about luck and lotteries, with anecdotes of all kinds respecting fortunate winners; then came stories of Texan expeditions in former times, which I began to perceive were little else than speculations of a gambling kind, rarely intended to go farther than the quay of New Orleans.
On the present occasion, however, it would seem a real expedition had been planned. Some had already sailed, others were to follow the very day after the lottery, and only waited to learn who was the fortunate winner of Butcher's mare, at that time waiting at Galveston for an owner.
I waited a long time, in hope of acquiring something like an insight into the scope of the enterprise, but in vain; indeed, it was easy to see that, of the company, not a single one, in all likelihood, intended to join the expedition. When I left the “Picayune,” therefore, I was but little wiser than when I entered it; and yet somehow the whole scheme had taken a fast hold on my imagination, which readily filled in the details of what I was ignorant. The course of reading in which I had indulged on board Sir Dudley's yacht was doubtless the reason of this. My mind had laid up so many texts for adventurous fancies that on the slightest pretext I could call up any quantity of enterprise and vicissitude.
A hundred times I asked myself if it were likely that any of these Texan adventurers would accept, of my services to wait upon them. I was not ignorant of horses, a tolerably fair groom, could cook a little,—that much I had learned on board the yacht; besides, wherever my qualifications failed, I had a ready witted ingenuity that supplied the place almost as well as the “real article.”
“Ah!” thought I, “who knows how many are passing at this moment whose very hearts would leap with joy to find such a fellow as I am,' accustomed to in-door and out, wages no object, and no objection to travel! '” Possessed with this notion, I could not help fancying that in every look that met mine as I went, I could read something like an inquiry, a searching glance that seemed to say, “Bless me! ain't that Con? As I live, there's Con Cregan! What a rare piece of fortune to chance upon him at this juncture!”
I own it did require a vivid and warm imagination so to interpret the expressions which met my eyes at every moment, seeing that the part of the town into which I had wandered was that adjoining to the docks,—a filthy, gloomy quarter, chiefly resorted to by Jew slop-sellers, ship-chandlers, and such like, with here and there a sailors' ordinary usually kept by a negro or half-breed.
I had eaten nothing that day, and it was now late in the afternoon, so that it was with a very strong interest I peeped occasionally into the little dens, where, under a paper lantern with the inscription, “All for Twelve Cents,” sat a company, usually of sailors and watermen, whose fare harmonized most unpleasantly with their features.
The combat between a man's taste and his exchequer is never less agreeable than when it concerns a dinner. To feel that you have a soul for turtle and truffles, and yet must descend to mashed potatoes and herrings; to know that a palate capable of appreciating a salmi des perdreaux must be condemned to the indignity of stock fish,—what an indignity is that! The whole man revolts at it! You feel, besides, that such a meal is unrelieved by those suggestive excursions of fancy which a well-served table abounds in. In the one case you eat like the beast of the field,—it is a question of supporting nature, and no more; in the other, there is a poetry interwoven that elevates and exalts. With what discursive freedom does the imagination range from the little plate of oysters that preludes your soup, to pearl fishery and the coral reefs, “with moonlight sleeping on the breaking surf!” And then your soup, be it turtle or mulligatawny, how associated is it with the West Indies or the East, bearing on its aromatic vapor thousands of speculative reflections about sugar and slavery, pepper-pots, straw hats, pickaninnies, and the Bishop of Barbadoes; or the still grander themes of elephants, emeralds, and the Indus, with rajahs, tigers, punkahs, and the Punjaub!
And so you proceed, dreamily following out in fancy the hints each course supplies, and roving with your cutlets to the “cattle upon a thousand hills,” or dallying with the dessert to the orange-groves of Zaute or Sicily.
I do love all this. The bouquet of my Bordeaux brings back the Rhone, as the dry muscat of my Johannisberg pictures the vine-clad cliffs of the Vaterland, with a long diminuendo train of thought about Metternich and the Holy Alliance—the unlucky treaty of '15—Vienna—Madame Schrader—and Castelli.
And how pleasantly and nationally does one come back with the port to our “ancient ally, Portugal,” with a mind-painted panorama of Torres Vedras and the Douro,—with Black Horse Square and the Tagus,—“the Duke” ever and anon flitting across the scene, and making each glass you carry to your lips a heartfelt “long life to him!”
Alas and alas! such prandial delights were not for me; I must dine for twelve cents, or, by accepting the brilliant entertainment announced yonder, price half-a-dollar, keep Lent the rest of the week.
The temptation to which I allude ran thus:—
Ladies and Gentlemen's Grand Ordinary of all Nations
At 5 o'clock precisely.
Thumbo-rig—Mint julep—and a Ball. The “Half-dollar.”
Monsieur Palamede de Rosanne directs the Ceremonies.
If there was a small phrase in the aforesaid not perfectly intelligible, it seemed, upon the principle of the well-known adage, only to heighten the inducement. The “Thumbo-rig” above might mean either a new potation or a new dance. Still, conceding this unknown territory, there was quite sufficient in the remainder of the advertisement to prove a strong temptation. The house, too, had a pretentious air about it that promised well. There was a large bow-window, displaying a perfect landscape of rounds and sirloins, with a tasteful drapery of sausages overhead; while a fragrant odor of rum, onions, fresh crabs, cheese, salt cod, and preserved ginger made the very air ambrosial.
As I stood and sniffed, my resolution staggered under the assaults made on eye, nose, and palate, a very smartly-dressed female figure crossed the way, holding up her dress full an inch or so higher than even the mud required, and with a jaunty air displayed a pair of very pink stockings on very well-turned legs. I believe—I 'm not sure, but I fear—the pink stockings completed what the pickled beef began. I entered. Having paid my money at the bar, and given up my hat and greatcoat, I was ushered by a black waiter, dressed in a striped jacket and trousers, as if he had been ruled with red ink, into a large room, where a very numerous company of both sexes were assembled, some seated, some standing, but all talking away with buzz and confusion that showed perfect intimacy to be the order of the day. The men, it was easy to see, were chiefly in the “shipping interest.” There was a strong majority of mates and small skippers, whose varied tongues ranged from Spanish and Portuguese to Dutch and Danish; French, English and Russian were also heard in the mêlée, showing that the Grand Ordinary had a world-made repute. The ladies were mostly young, very condescending in their manners, somewhat overdressed, and for the most part French.
As I knew no one, I waited patiently to be directed where I should sit, and was at last shown to a place between a very fat lady of créole tint—another dip would have made her black—and a little brisk man, whom I soon heard was Monsieur Palamede himself.
The dinner was good, the conversation easiest of the easy, taking in all, from matters commercial to social,—the whole seasoned with the greatest good-humor and no small share of smartness. Personal adventures by land and sea,—many of the latter recounted by men who made no scruple of confessing that they “dealt in ebony,”—the slave-trade. Little incidents of life, that told much for the candor of the recounter, were heard on all sides, until at length I really felt ashamed of my own deficiency in not having even contributed an anecdote for the benefit of the company. This preyed upon me the more as I saw myself surrounded by persons who really, if their own unimpeachable evidence was to be credited, began the world in ways and shapes the most singular and uncommon. Not a man or woman of the party that had not slipped into existence in some droll, quaint fashion of their own, so that positively, and for the first time, I really grew ashamed to think that I belonged to “decent people” who had not compromised me in the slightest degree. “Voilà un jeune homme qui ne dit pas un mot!” said a pretty-looking woman, with fair brown hair and a very liquid pair of blue eyes. The speech was addressed to me, and the whole table at once turned their glances towards me.
“Ay, very true,” said a short, stout little skipper, with an unmistakable slash from a cutlass across his nose; “a sharp-looking fellow like that has a story if he will only tell it.”
“And you may see,” cried another, “that we are above petty prejudices here; roguery only lies heavy on the conscience that conceals it.” The speaker was a tall, sallow man, with singularly intelligent features; he had been a Jesuit tutor in the family of an Italian noble, and after consigning his patron to the Inquisition, had been himself banished from Rome.
Pressing entreaties and rough commands, half imperious instances and very seductive glances, all were directed towards me, with the object of extorting some traits of my life, and more particularly of that part of it which concerned my birth and parentage. If the example of the company invited the most unqualified candor, I cannot say that it overcame certain scruples I felt about revealing my humble origin. I was precisely in that anomalous position in life when such avowals are most painful. Without ambition, the confession had not cost me any sacrifice; while, on the other hand, I had not attained that eminence which has a proud boastfulness in saying, “Yes, I, such as you see me now,—great, titled, wealthy, and powerful,—I was the son of a newsvender or a lamplighter.” Such avowals, highly lauded as they are by the world, especially when made by archbishops or chancellors, or other great folk, at public dinners, are, to my thinking, about as vainglorious bits of poor human nature as the most cynical could wish to witness. They are the mere victories of vanity over self-esteem. Now, I had no objection that the world should think me a young gentleman of the very easiest notions of right and wrong, with a conscience as elastic as gutta-percha, picking my way across life's stream on the stepping-stones made by other men's skulls,—being, as the phrase has it, a very loose fish indeed; but I insisted on their believing that I was well-born. Every one has his weakness,—this was Con Cregan's; and as these isolated fissures in strong character are nearly allied with strength, so was it with me: had I not had this frailty, I had never cherished so intensely the passion to become a gentleman. This is all digressionary; but I 'll not ask pardon of my dear reader for all that. If he be reading in his snug, well-cushioned chair, with every appliance of ease about him, he'll not throw down these “Confessions” for a bit of prosing that invites the sleep that is already hovering round him. If he has taken me up in the few minutes before dinner, he 'll not regret the bit of meditation which does not involve him in a story. If he be spelling me out in a mail-train, he'll be grateful for the “skipping” place, which leaves him time to look out and see the ingenious preparations that are making by the “down” or the “up” train to run into and smash the unhappy convoy of which he forms a part.
“Come, my young lad, out with it. Let us hear a bit about the worthy people who took the sin of launching you into the wide ocean. You must have had owners one time or other.” This was said by a hearty looking old man, with hair white as snow, and an enormous pair of eyebrows to match.
“Willingly, sir,” said I, with an air of the easiest confidence; “I should be but too proud if anything in a history humble as mine is could amuse this honorable company. But the truth is, a life so devoid of interest would be only a tax upon its patience to listen to; and as to my birth, I can give little, indeed no, information. The earliest record of my existence that I possess is from the age of two days and three hours.”
“That will do,—do admirably!” chorused the party, who laughed heartily at the gravity with which I spoke, and which to them seemed an earnest of my extreme simplicity. “We shall be quite satisfied with that,” cried they again.
“Well, then, gentlemen, thanking you for the indulgence with which you consent to overlook my want of accuracy, I proceed. At the tender age I have mentioned, I was won in a raffle!”
“Won in a raffle! won in a raffle!” screamed one after the other; and amid shouts of laughter the phrase continued to be echoed from end to end of the table. “That beats you hollow, Giles!” “By Jove, how scarce babies must be in the part you come from, if people take tickets for em!” Such were some of the commentaries that broke out amidst the mirth.
“I move,” said a dapper little Frenchman who had been a barber and a National Guard once, “I move that the honorable deputy make a statement to the Chamber respecting the interesting fact to which he has alluded.”
The motion was carried by acclamation, and I was accordingly induced to ascend the tribune,—a kind of rude pulpit that was brought specially into the room, and stationed at the side of the president's chair; the comments on my personal appearance, age, air, and probable rank, which were made all the while, evidencing the most candid spirit one can well imagine.
“A right-down slick and shrewd 'un, darn me if he ain't!”
“A very wide awake young gemman,” quoth number two.
“Il a de 'beaux yeux,' celui-là,”—this was a lady's remark.
“Set that young 'un among the girls 'down east,' and he'll mow 'em down like grass.”
“A Londoner,—swell-mobbish a bit, I take it.”
“Not at all, he a'nt; he's a bank clerk or a post-office fellow bolted with a lot of tin.”
“Der ist ein echter Schelm,” growled out an old Dantzic skipper; “I kenn him vehr wohl,—steal your wash wid a leetle scheer,—scissars you call him, ha! ha!”
“Ladies and gentlemen,” said I, assuming a pose of the most dignified importance, “before entering upon the circumstance to which you have so graciously attached a little interest, let me assure you—not that the fact can or ought to have any weight with this distinguished company—that I have no claim upon your sympathy with regard to any of the pleas whispered around me. I am neither thief, pickpocket, runaway postman, burglar, nor highwayman. If I be, as you are pleased to say, 'wide awake,' I believe it is only a common precaution, considering the company I find myself in; and if I really could lay claim to the flattering praise of a fair lady on the left, it would be merely from accidentally reflecting her own bright glances. I present myself, then, with much diffidence before you, for the simple reason that I come in a character somewhat strange in these parts,—I am a gentleman!”
The ineffable impertinence of this address succeeded to a miracle. Some laughed, some applauded, a few muttered an unintelligible discontent; but the majority of the men and all the women were with me, and I saw that audacity had gained the day. Ay, and so will it ninety-nine times out of the hundred in everything through life! The strategic axiom, that no fortress is impregnable, is a valuable worldly lesson, and one ought never to forget that a storming-party rarely fails.
“The circumstance to which I alluded a few miuutes back—I dare not presume to call it a story—occurred thus :
“There was a large and brilliant party assembled to pass the Christmas at the Duke of Y————'s; you will understand my reserve. The company included many of the first persons in fashionable life, and a Royal *Duke to boot, a great friend of her Grace, and, some said, an old admirer of one of her sisters, who—so went the rumor—showed the strength of her attachment to his Royal Highness by never having accepted any of the brilliant offers of marriage made her. She was remarkably beautiful, and although a little past the first bloom of youth, in full possession of her charms at the time I speak of. Old Lord K———— was one of the guests; and I am sure many of the distinguished company to whom I now address myself will not need any more particular description of the man they must have met a hundred times every London season, well known, indeed, as he is, with his light-blue coat and his buckskin tights, his wide beaver hat, and his queue; his eccentricities, his wealth, and his great avarice are themes all London is acquainted with.” I paused.
A buzz of acknowledgment and recognition followed, and I resumed:—
“Lord E————, you are aware, was a great musical amateur ; he was the leader of everything of that kind about town, and whenever he could prevail upon himself to open his house in Carlton Terrace, it was always to Lablache, and Kubini, and Marini, and the reat of them. Well, it was just at the period of this Christmas visit—over which I may remark, en passant, Lady Blanche's indisposition cast a shade of gloom—that, in making some alteration in the mansion, they discovered in a concealed press in the wall a mahogany case, on opening which were found the moth and worm eaten remains of a violin. A parchment document enclosed in a little scroll of brass, and which had escaped the ravages of time, explained that this was the instrument of the celebrated Giacomo Battesta Pizzicbetoni, the greatest violinist that ever lived,—the composer of 'II Diavolo e la sua Moglia' and the 'Balia di Paradise,' and many other great works, with which you are all familiar.”
The company chorused assent, and I continued: “The party had somehow not gone off well; the accustomed spirit aud animation of the scene were wanting. Perhaps Lady Blanche's illness had some share in this; in any case, every one seemed low aud out of sorts, and the pleasant people talked of taking leave, when his Royal Highness proposed, by way of doing something, that they should have a raffle for this wonderful fiddle, of which, though only seen by the host and another, every one was talking.
“Even this much of stir was hailed with enthusiasm, the secrecy and mystery increasing the interest to a high degree.
The tickets were two guineas each ; and Lord E————, dying to possess 'a real Pizzichetoni,' took twenty of them. The number was limited to a hundred; but such was the judicious management of those who directed the proceedings that the shares were at a 'high premium' on the day of drawing, his Royal Highness actually buying up several at five guineas apiece. The excitement, too, was immense ; encyclopedias were ransacked for histories of the violin, and its great professors and proficients. The 'Conversations Lexicon' opened of itself at the letter P., and Pizzichetoni's name turned up in every corner and on every theme, fifty times a day. What a time I have heard that was! nothing talked of but bow-action, shifting, bridging, double fingering, and the like, from morning to night. Lord E———— became, in consequence of this run about a favorite subject, a personage of more than ordinary importance; instead of being deemed, what he was commonly called at the clubs, the Great 'Borassus,' he was listened to with interest and attention; and, in fact, from the extent of his knowledge of the subject, and his acquaintance with every detail of its history, each felt that to his Lordship ought by right to fall the fortunate ticket.
“So did it, in fact, turn out. After much vacillation, with the last two numbers remained the final decision. One belonged to the Royal Duke, the other to Lord E———.
“'You shall have a hundred guineas for your chance, E———,' said the Duke; 'what say you?'
“'Your Ruyal Highness's wish is a command,' said he, bowing and blushing; 'but were it otherwise, and to any other than your Royal Highness, I should as certainly say nay.'
“'Then “nay” must be the answer to me also; I cannot accept of such a sacrifice: and, after all, you are much more worthy of such a treasure than I am,—I really only meant it for a present to Mori.'
“'A present, your Royal Highness!' cried he, horrified; 'I would n't give such a jewel to anything short of St. Cecilia,—the violin, you are aware, was her instrument.'
“'Now, then, for our fortunes!' cried the Duke, as he drew forth his ticket. 'I believe I 'm the lucky one: this is number 2000.'
“'Two thousand and one!' exclaimed Lord E———, holding up his, and, in an ecstasy of triumph, sat down to recover himself.
“'Here is the key, my Lord,' said one of the party, advancing towards him.
“He sprang up, and thrust it into the lock; in his agitation he shook the box, and a slight, soft cadence, like a faint cry, was heard.
“'The soul of music hovers o'er it still,' he exclaimed theatrically, and, flinging back the lid, discovered—Me! Yes, ladies and gentlemen, in a very smart white robe, with very tasty embroidery, and a lace cap which I am assured was pure Valenciennes, there I lay! I am not aware whether my infantine movements were peculiarly seductive or not; but I have been told that I went through my gamut at a key that even overtopped the laughter around me.
“'A very bad jest—a mauvaise plaisanterie of the worst taste, I must say,' said Lord E———turning away, and leaving the room.
“I never rightly knew how the matter was afterwards made up, but certainly it was by his lordship's directions, and at his charge, that I was nursed, reared, and educated. My expenses at Eton and Oxford, as well as the cost of my commission, came from him; and it was only a few days ago, on learning his death, that I also learned the termination of my good fortune in life. He bequeathed me what he styled my 'family mansio,'—the fiddle-case; thus repaying by this cruel jest the practical joke passed upon himself so many years before.”
“What name did they give you, sir?”
“'I was called after the celebrated violinist of Cremona who lived in the seventh century, who was named Cornelius Crejanus, or, as some spell, Creganus; and, in compliance with modern usages, they anglicized me into Con Cregan.”
“I have the honor to propose Con Cregan's health,” said the president; “and may he see many happy years ere he next goes to sleep in a wooden box!”
This very gratifying toast was drunk with the most flattering acclamations, and I descended from the tribune the “man of the evening.”
If some of the company who put credence in my story did not hesitate to ascribe a strong interest in me to the Royal Duke himself, others, who put less faith in my narrative, thought less of my parentage, and more of myself; so that what I lost on one hand, I gained on the other.
There was a discretion, a certain shadowy prudery about certain portions of my story, of which I have not attempted to convey any notion here, but which I saw had “told” with the fair part of my audience, who, possibly not over rigid in many of their opinions, were well pleased with the delicate reserve in which I shrouded my direct allusion to my parentage. A rough, red-whiskered skipper, indeed, seemed disposed to pour a broadside into this mystery, by asking “If his Royal Highness never took any notice of me?” but the refined taste of the company concurred in the diplomatic refusal to answer a question of which the “hon. gentleman on the straw chair” had given “no notice.”
The pleasures of the table,—a very luscious bowl of the liquid which bore the mysterious epithet of “Thumbo-rig,” and which was a concoction of the genus punch, spiced, sugared, and iced to a degree that concealed its awful tendency to anti-Mathewism; bright eyes that were no churls of their glances; merry converse; and that wondrous “magnetism of the board” which we call good fellowship,—made the time pass rapidly. Toasts and sentiments of every fashion went round, and we were political, literary, arbitrary, amatory, sentimental, and satiric by turns. They were pleasant varlets! and in their very diversity of humors there was that clash and collision of mind and metal that tell more effectively than the best packed party of choice wits who ever sat and watched each other.
Then, there was a jolly jumbling up of bad English, bad Dutch, bad French, Italian, Spanish, and Portuguese, that would drive a sober listener clean mad. Stories begun in one tongue merged into another; and so into a third; while explanations, mistakes, and corrections ran alongside of the narrative, often far more amusing than the story to which they were attached. Personalities, too, abounded, but with a most unqualified good temper; and, on the whole, I never beheld a merrier set.
M. Palamede alone did not relish the scene. He himself was nobody at such a moment, and he longed for the ballroom and the dance; and it was only after repeated summonses of his bell that we at last arose and entered the saloon, where we found him standing, fiddle in hand, while, rapping smartly a couple of times with his bow, he called out,—
“Places! places! Monsieur le Duc de Gubbins, to your place. Ladies, I beg attention. Madame la Marquise, dans la bonne société on ne donne jamais un soufflet.”
“Ah, here's old Rosin again!” cried several of the party, who, with all this familiarity, appeared to view him with no small respect.
“Shall I find you a partner, Monsieur de Congreganne?” said he to me.
“Thanks,” said I; “but, with your permission, I'll not dance just yet.”
“As you please, it is but a contre-danse,” said he shrugging his shoulders, while he moved away to arrange the figures.
I had not perceived before that a kind of orchestra, consisting of two fiddles, a flute, and a tambourine, was stationed in a long gallery over the door by which we entered; Monsieur Palamede being, however, director, not alone of the music, but of the entire entertainment. The band now struck up a well-known English country-dance, and away went the couples, flying down the room to the merry measure; Monsieur de Rosanne arranging the figures, beating the time, preserving order, and restraining irregularities, with the energy of one possessed.
“Ah, Monsieur le Capitaine de Cocks, c'en est trop. Mademoiselle de Spicer, pas si haut! de arms graceful! Ladies, no keep your hands under * your—what ye call him—jupe—apron—ha! ha! Black man—negro—no talk so loud when you make punch!”
“Chassez—balancez! La grace! Madame la Marquise, la grace!” Then, as he passed me, he muttered with a voice guttural from anger, “Quel supplice!”
As I continued to gaze on the scene, I could not help being struck with the extreme diversity of look and expression; for while there were some faces on which iniquity had laid its indelible stamp, there were others singularly pleasing, and some actually beautiful. Among the men, the same character prevailed throughout,—a rude, coarse good-humor,—the sailor-type everywhere; but a few seemed persons of a higher class, and on these a life of vice and debauchery had produced the most marked change, and you could still see, amid the traces of nights of riot and abandonment, the remnant of finer features, the expression they had worn before their “fall.” If I was surprised at the good looks of many of the women, still more was I by a gracefuluess of carriage and an air of deportment that seemed as much out of place as they were unsuited to such companionship. One young fellow appeared to be a general favorite with the company. He was tall, well-made, and had that indescribably rakish character about his very gesture that is rarely a bad indication of the possessor's mode of life. I had no difficulty in learning his name, for every one called him by it at each instant, and “Fred Falkoner” was heard on all sides. It was he who selected the music for the dance; his partner, for the time being, was the belle of the room, and he lounged about supreme. Nor was his title a bad one,—he was the great entertainer of the whole assembly. The refreshments were almost entirely of his ordering, and the clink of his dollars might be heard keeping merry time with the strains of the violins. I watched him with some interest; I thought I could see that, in descending to such companionship, there was a secret combat between his self-respect and a strange passion for seeing life in low places, which, when added to the flattery such a man invariably obtains from his inferiors, is a dangerous and subtle temptation. The more I studied him, the stronger grew this conviction,—nay, at times, the expression of scorn upon his handsome features was legible even to the least remarking. It was while I still continued to watch him that he passed me, with a dark, Spanish-looking girl upon his arm, When he turned round suddenly, and, staring at me fixedly a few seconds, said, “We met once before, to-day.”
“I am not aware of it,” said I, doubtingly.
“Yes, yes. I never forget a face, least of all when it resembles yours. I saw you this morning at the 'Picayune.'”
“True, I was there.”
“What a precious set of rascals those fellows were! You supposed that they were going to join the expedition. Not a bit of it. Some were gamblers; the greater number thieves and pickpockets. I know them all; and, indeed, I was going to warn you about them, for I saw you were a stranger, but I lost sight of you in the crowd. But there's the music. Will you have a partner?”
“With all my heart,” said I, glad to encourage our further acquaintance.
“You speak Spanish?”
“Not a word.”
“Well, no matter. If you did, you should have mine here. But what say you to Mademoiselle Héloïse, yonder?—a bit faded or so; but I remember her second 'Ballarina' at the Havana, only two years back.”
I made the suitable acknowledgment; and the next moment saw me whirling away in a waltz, at least in such an approximation to that measure as my Quebec experience suggested, with a very highly rouged and black-eyebrowed “danseuse.” My French was better than my dancing; and so Mademoiselle Héloïse was satisfied to accept my arm, while we paraded the room, discussing the company after the most approved fashion.
The French have a proverb, “Bête comme une danseuse;” and I must say that my fair friend did not prove an exception. Her whole idea of life was limited to what takes place in rehearsal of a morning, or on the night of representation. She recounted to me her history from the time she had been a “Rat,”—such is the technical term at the Grand Opera of Paris,—flying through the air on a wire, or sitting perilously perched upon a pasteboard cloud. Thence she had advanced to the state of Fairy Queen, or some winged messenger of those celestials who wear muslin trousers with gold stars, and always stand in the “fifth position.” Passing through the grade of Swiss peasant, Turkish slave, and Neapolitan market-girl, she had at last arrived at the legitimate drama of “legs,” yclept “ballet d'action;” and although neither her beauty nor abilities had been sufficient to achieve celebrity in Paris, she was accounted a Taglioni in the “provinces,” and deemed worthy of exportation to the colonies.
“Non contingit cuique ad ire Corinthum!” we cannot all have our “loges” at the “Grand Opéra;” and happy for us it is so, or what would become of the pleasure we derive from third, fourth, and fifth rate performances elsewhere? True, indeed, if truffles were a necessary of life, there would be a vast amount of inconvenience and suffering. Now, Mademoiselle Héloïse, whose pirouettes were no more minded in Paris, nor singled out for peculiar favor, than one of the lamps in the row of footlights, was a kind of small idol in the Havana. She had the good fortune to live in an age when the heels take precedence of the head, and she shared in the enthusiasm by which certain people in our day would bring back the heathen mythology for the benefit of the corps de ballet.
Alas for fame! in the very climax of her glory she grew fat! Now, flesh to a danseuse is like cowardice to a soldier, or shame to a lawyer,—it is the irreconcilable quality. The gauzy natures who float to soft music must not sup. Every cutlet costs an “entrechat”! Hard and terrible condition of existence, and proving how difficult and self-denying a thing it is to be an angel, even in this world!
So much for Mademoiselle Héloise; and if the reader be weary of her, so was I.
“You'll have to treat her to a supper,” whispered Falkoner, as he passed me.
“I've not a cent in my purse,” said I, thinking it better to tell the truth than incur the reproach of stinginess.
“Never mind, take mine,” said he, as he dropped a very weighty purse into my coat-pocket, and moved away before I could make any answer.
Perhaps the greatest flattery an individual can receive is to win some acknowledgment of confidence from an utter stranger. To know that by the chance intercourse of a few minutes you have so impressed another, who never saw you before, that he is impelled at once to befriend you, your self-esteem, so pleasantly gratified, immediately re-acts upon the cause, and you are at a loss whether most to applaud your own good gifts, or the ready wittedness of him who appreciated them so instantaneously.
I was still hesitating, revolving, doubtless, the pleasant sense of flattery aforesaid, when Falkoner came flying past with his partner. “Order supper for four,” cried he, as he whizzed by.
“What does he say, mon cher Comte?” said my partner.
I translated his command, and found that the notion pleased her vastly.
The dining-room by this time had been metamorphosed into a kind of coffee-room, with small supper-tables, at which parties were already assembling; and here we now took our places, to con over the bill of fare, and discuss scalloped oysters, cold lobster, devilled haddock, and other like delicacies.
Falkoner soon joined us, and we sat down, the merriest knot in the room. I must have been brilliant! I feel it so, this hour; a kind of warm glow rushes to my cheeks as I think over that evening, and how the guests from the different parts of the room drew gradually nearer and nearer to listen to the converse at our table, and hear the smart things that came pattering down like hail! What pressing invitations came pouring in upon me! The great Mastodon himself could not have eaten a tithe of the breakfasts to which I was asked, nor would the grog-tub of a seventy-four contain all the rum-and-water I was proffered by skippers lying “in dock.”
Falkoner, however, pleased me more than the rest. There was something in his cordiality that did not seem like a passing fancy; and I could not help feeling that however corrupted and run to waste by dissipation, there was good stuff about him. He interested me, too, on another score: he had formerly made one of a Texan excursion that had penetrated even to the Rio del Norte, and his escapes and adventures amused me highly. The ladies, I believe, at last found us very ungallant cavaliers; for they arose, and left us talking over prairie life and the wild habits of the chase, till day began to shine through the windows.
“The 'Christobal' sails to-morrow,” said he, “for Galveston; but even she, smart sailer that she is, will scarce arrive in time to catch these fellows. Here we are at the fifth of the month: the eighth was to be the start; then that, supposing you to reach Galveston by the seventh, gives you no time to get your kit ready, look after arms, and buy a nag. What say you, then, if we make a party of our own,—charter one of these small craft?—a hundred dollars or so will do it. We can then take our time to pick up good cattle, look out for a couple of mules for our baggage, and a spare mustang or so, if a horse should knock up.”
I concurred at once; the plan was fascination itself. Adventure, liberty, novelty, enterprise, and a dash of danger to heighten all! Falkoner talked of dollars as if they macadamized the road to St. Louis; and I, glowing with punch and pride together, spoke of the expense as a mere trifle. To this hour, I cannot say whether I had really mystified myself into the notion that I possessed ample means, or was merely indulging the passing pleasure of a delightful vision. So was it, however; I smiled at the cheapness of everything, could scarcely fancy such a thing as a Mexican pony for eighty dollars, and laughed—actually laughed—at the price of the rifle, when all my worldly substance, at the moment, would not have purchased copper caps for it.
“Don't go too expensively to work, Cregan,” cried he, “and, above all, bring no European servant. A Mexican fellow—or, better still, a half-breed—is the thing for the prairies. You have to forget your Old World habits, and rough it.”
“So I can,” said I, laughing good-humoredly; “I 'm in a capital mind for a bit of sharp work too. Just before I left the 90th, we made a forced march from St. John's through the forest country, and I feel up to anything.”
“You'll not like the cattle at first, I'm afraid,” said he. “They have that racking action the Yankees are fond of. There is a capital mare at Galveston, if we could get her. These fellows will snap her up, most likely.”
“Butcher's mare,” said I, hazarding a guess.
“Ah, you 've been looking after her already,” said he, surprised. “Well, to tell you the truth, that was one of my objects in coming here to-night. I heard that some of these skipper fellows had got the winning ticket: I paid twenty dollars to the office-clerk to see the number, and determine to buy it up. Here it is. Can you read these figures? for, hang me if the punch, or the heat, or the dancing, has not made me quite dizzy.”
“Let me see: Number 438,” said I, repeating it a couple of times over.
“Yes, that is it. If I could have chanced on it, I 'd have run down to-morrow by the 'Christobal.' She lies about a mile out, and will weigh with the ebb, at eight o'clock. That mare—she killed Butcher by a down leap over a rock, but never scratched herself—is worth at least a thousand dollars.”
“I offered eight hundred for her on mere character,” said I, sitting back, and sipping my liquid with a most profound quietude.
Falkoner was evidently surprised with this announcement; but more so from the rakish indifference it betrayed about money, than as bespeaking me rich and affluent. And thus we chatted away till the black waiter made his appearance to open the windows and prepare for the work of the day.
“Where are you stopping?” said Falkoner, as we arose from the table.
“At Condor House,” said I, boldly giving the name of a very flash hotel. “But it's too noisy; I don't like it.”
“Nor do I. It's confoundedly expensive, too. I wish you would come to Herrick's; it is not quite so stylish, perhaps, but I think the cookery is better, and you 'd not pay five dollars a bottle for Madeira, and eight for Champagne.”
“That is smart,” said I. “They 've not let me have my bill yet; but I fancied they were costly folk.”
“Well, come and dine with me at Herrick's to-morrow, and decide for yourself.”
“Why not try the Condor with me?” said I.
“Another day, with all my heart; but I have a friend to-morrow, so come and meet him at six o'clock.”
I agreed; and then we chatted on about London and town folks in a way that, even with all I had drunk, amazed me for the cool impudence in which I indulged.
“You knew De Courcy, of course,” said he, after a long run of mutual friends had been disposed of.
“Jack?” cried I,—“Jack De Courcy, of the Cold-streams,—yes, I think I did. Jack and I were like brothers. The last steeplechase I rode in Ireland was for poor Jack De Courcy: a little chestnut mare with a good deal of the Arab about her.”
“I remember her well,—an active devil, but she could n't go for more than half a mile.”
“Well, I managed to screw a race out of her.”
“You must tell me all about that to-morrow; for I find my unfortunate head is like a bell with the vibration of the last stroke of the hammer on it. Don't forget,—to-morrow, sharp six. You 'll meet nobody but Broughton.”
“Dudley,—Sir Dudley Broughton?”
“The same. You know him, then, already? Poor fellow! he's terribly cut up; but he 'll be glad to see an old friend. Have you been much together?”
“A great deal. I made a cruise with him in his yacht, the 'Firefly.'”
“What a rare piece of fortune to have met you!” cried Falkoner, as he shook my hand once more. And so, with the most fervent assurances of meeting on the morrow, we parted,—he, to saunter slowly towards his hotel; and I, to stand in the middle of the street, and, as I wiped the perspiration from my brow, to ask myself, had I gone clean mad.
I was so overwhelmed by the shock of my own impudence that I stood where Falkoner left me, for full five minutes, motionless and spell-bound. To have boasted of my intimacy with Captain De Courcy, although the Atlantic rolled between us, was bad enough, in all conscience; but to have talked of Sir Dudley—the haughty, insolent, overbearing Sir Dudley Broughton—as “my old friend,” was something that actually appalled me. How could my vain boastfulness have so far got the better of my natural keenness; how could my silly self-sufficiency have carried me so far? “Ah,” thought I, “it was not the real Con Cregan who spoke such ineffable folly; these were the outpourings of that diabolical 'Thumbo-rig.'”
While, therefore, I entered into a bond with myself to eschew that insidious compound in future, I also adopted the far more imminent and important resolve, to run away from New Orleans. Another sun must not set upon me in that city, come what might. With a shudder, I called to mind Sir Dudley's own avowal of his passion as a hater, and I could not venture to confront such danger.
I accordingly hastened to my miserable lodging, and, packing up my few clothes, now reduced to the compass of a bundle in a handkerchief, I paid my bill, and, on a minute calculation of various pieces of strange coinage, found myself the possessor of four dollars and a quarter,—a small sum, and something less than a cent for every ten miles I was removed from my native land. What meant the term “country,” after all, to such as me? He has a country who possesses property in it, whose interests tie him to the soil, where his name is known and his presence recognized; but what country belongs to him where no resting-place is found for his weary feet, whose home is an inn, whose friends are the fellow-travellers with whom he has journeyed? The ties of country, like those of kindred, are superstitions,—high and holy ones sometimes, but still superstitions. Believe in them if you can, and so much the better for you; but in some hour the conviction will come that man is of every land.
Thus pondering, I trudged along at a smart pace, my bundle on a stick over my shoulder, never noticing the road, and only following the way because it seemed to lead out of the city. It was a gorgeous morning; the sun glittered on the bright roofs, and lit up the gay terraces of the houses, where creepers of every tint and foliage were tastefully entwined and festooned, as these people knew so well to dispose. Servants were opening windows, displaying handsomely-furnished rooms, replete with every luxury, as I passed; busy housemaids were brushing, and sweeping, and polishing; and shining niggers were beating carpets and shaking hearthrugs, while others were raking the gravel before the doors, or watering the rich magnolias and cactuses that stood sentinel beneath the windows. Carriages, too, were washing, and high-bred horses standing out to be groomed,—all signs of wealth and of the luxuries of the rich men, whose close-drawn curtains portended sleep. “Ay,” thought I, “there are hundreds here, whose weightiest evil would be that they awoke an hour earlier than their wont; that their favorite Arab had stood on a sharp stone; that some rude branch had scratched the rich varnish on their chariot: while I wander along, alone and friendless, my worldly substance a few dollars.” This disparity of condition of course occurs to the mind of every poor man; but it only is a canker to him who has had a glimpse, be it ever so fleeting, of a life of luxury and ease. For this reason, the servant-class will always be a great source of danger to our present social condition; seeing the weakness, the folly, and sometimes the worse than folly of those they serve, viewing, from a near point, the interior lives of those who, seen from afar, are reckoned great and illustrious,—they lose the prestige of respect for the distinguishing qualities of station, and only yield it to the outward symbols,—the wealth and riches. What Socialists are our butlers; what Democrats our footmen; what Red Republicans are our cooks; what a Leveller is the gardener! For all your “yellow plush,” you are Sans-culottes, every man of you.
Now, I deem it a high testimony to my powers of judgment that I never entertained these views. On the contrary, I always upheld the doctrine that society, like a broken thigh-bone, did best on an “inclined plane,” and I repudiated equality with the scorn a man six feet high would feel were he told that the human standard was to be four and a half. The only grudge I did feel towards the fortunate man of wealth was that I should lose so many brilliant years of life in acquiring—for acquire it I would—what I would far rather employ in dispensing. A guinea at twenty is worth a hundred at thirty, a thousand at forty, a million at sixty,—that's the geometrical mean of life. Glorious youth, that only needs “debentures” to be divine!
My head became clearer and my brain more unclouded as I walked along in the free air of the morning, and I felt that with a cigar I should both compose my vagrant fancies, and cheat myself out of the necessity of a breakfast. Excellent weed! that can make dulness imaginative, and imagination plodding; that renders stupid men companionable to clever ones, and gives a meek air of thought to the very flattest insipidity!
I searched my pocket for the little case that contained my Manillas, but in vain; I tried another,—like result. How was it? I always carried it in my great-coat: had I been robbed? I could not help laughing at the thought, it sounded so ineffably comic. I essayed again, alas! with no better success. Could I have placed it in the breast-pocket? What! there is no breast-pocket! How is this, Con? Has Thumbo-rig its influence over you yet? I passed my hand across my brow, and tried to remember if the breast-pocket had only been a tradition of another coat, or what had become of it. Pockets do not close from being empty, like county banks, nor do they dry up, like wells, from disuse.
“No, no; there certainly was once one here.” As I said this, what was my amazement to find that the pocket for which I had been searching had changed sides, and gone from left to right! “Oh, this is too bad!” thought I; “with a little more punch, I could have fancied that I had put my coat on wrong-sided. Here is a mystery!” said I, “and now, to solve it patiently;” and so I sat me down by the wayside, and, laying my bundle on the ground, began to reflect.
Reflection, I soon found, was of no use. Habit—the instinct of custom—showed me that my pocket had always been to the left; my right hand sought the spot with an almost mechanical impulse, whereas my left wandered about like a man in search of his newly-taken lodging. As I came to this puzzling fact, my fingers, deeply immersed in the pocket, came in contact with a small leather case. I drew it forth; it was not mine,—I had never seen it before! I opened it; there was nothing within but a small piece of card, with the words, “Full Share Ticket,” on top, and, underneath, the figures, '438.”
From the card, my eyes reverted to the coat itself; and now I saw, with a surprise I cannot convey, that it was not my own coat, but another man's, I was wearing. The negro at the ordinary had assisted me to put it on. It was the only one, indeed, remaining, as I came away, and some other had carried off mine. So far, it was a fair exchange, of which I was not in any way accountable, seeing that I performed a mere passive part; taking—and even that unwillingly—what was left me. Certain threadbare symptoms about the cuffs, and a missing button or two, also showed me that I was no gainer by the barter. Was it worth while to go back? Were the chances of recovering my own equal to the risk of being myself discovered? I thought not. It was decidedly a shabby investment, and, now that I examined it more closely, a very miserable substitute for my own. I was vexed at the occurrence, and could not help reflecting, in very severe terms, upon the breach of honor such an act displayed. “Lie down with dogs, Master Con,” says the adage, “and see if you don't get up with fleas!” “Such company as you passed the evening with were assuredly not above a piece of roguery like this.” Falkoner it could not be; and I own that I was glad to know that, since he was much taller than me; nor could I remember one who was near enough my own size to make me suppose him the culprit; and so I ended by attributing the knavery to the negro, who probably had kept this ancient vestment for a moment of substitution.
It may be inferred, from the difficulty of solution in the case of this very simple occurrence, that my faculties were not pre-eminently clear and lucid, and that the vapor of the Thumbo-rig still hung heavily over me; such, I am bound to own, was the fact. Every event of the previous night was as shadowy and imperfect as might be. It was only during the last half-hour of my conversation with Falkoner that I was completely conscious of all said and done around me. Previous to this, my mind had established a kind of Provisional Government over my rebellious ideas, and, like most such bodies, its edicts had little force, for they were based on but a weak prestige.
Now then came a question of this strange-looking piece of card, with the numbers on which, by some wonderful process, I seemed to myself perfectly familiar,—nay, I felt that they were, from some hidden cause, recorded facts in my memory. All I could remember of the night before threw little light upon the matter, and I wondered on, striving to pierce the dull mist of uncertainty that enveloped all my thoughts; by this time, I had reached the bank of the river, and could perceive, about half a mile off, down the stream, a tall-masted smack getting ready for sea,—her blue-peter fluttered at the mast-head, and the pleasant “yo-ho!” of the sailors kept time with the capstan-bars as they heaved at the anchor. The wind was a nor'-wester, and beat with impatient gusts the loose canvas that hung ready to be shaken out, while the stream rushed rapidly along her sides.
“Would I were to sail in you, wherever your voyage tended!” was my exclamation; and I sat down to watch the preparations, which the loud commands of the skipper seemed to hasten and press forward. So occupied was I with the stir and bustle on board the craft, where everything was done with a lightning speed, that I did not remark a boat's crew who sat leaning on their oars beside the wall of the stream; and it was only when an accidental sound of their voices struck me that I saw them.
“That's a signal to come away, Ben!” said one of the men. “He 'll not wait no longer!”
“And why should he lose a tide for any land-lugger of them all? It's not every day, besides, we get a nor'-wester like this!”
“Well, what d'ye mean to do?” asked the former speaker.
“Give him ten minutes more, Ben,” cried another. “Let's have a chance of a dollar apiece, anyhow!”
“There goes a shot!” said the man called Ben, as he pointed to the smack, from whose bow-port the smoke was lazily issuing. “I'll not stay here any longer; shove her away, lads!”
