Presently the red cock gave his white adversary a thrust with his gaff, which put out one of his eyes, and nearly closed the engagement. As soon as Mr. Tumbler perceived this, he thrust the spectators aside, and going close up to the ring, he sung out: 'Hurra for the red cock, as I said before.' 'What you hurra for dat cock for!' exclaimed Sambo; hurra for your own cock, 'f you please!'
'Hurra for the red cock, as I said before!' exclaimed Mr. Tumbler, unheeding the remark of his opponent—'Hurra for the red cock!'
At length the white cock was fairly defeated, and Mr. Tumbler turned to the holder of the stakes, and demanded the money, which was given him, in spite of the remonstrances of the 'gen'leman o' color,' who claimed to have won the bet. The conduct of Mr. Tumbler in this affair appeared certainly not very honorable; but it would be unjust to censure him, without knowing whether or not he was in error as to the cock he bet upon. At all events, the subsequent coldness and self-possession which he maintained, under a strain of abuse showered upon him by the colored gentleman, was commendable in the extreme. He listened to it all as mildly as if it had been a glowing eulogium upon the excellence of his character; and when the enraged Ethiopian had finished, he turned leisurely upon his heel, and walked away. This was perhaps one of the most striking illustrations of Mr. Tumbler's mental superiority. It was indeed a feature of real greatness; for he who conquers his passion, as Mr. Tumbler evidently did, does more than he who commands armies; at least so said, I believe, the sage Socrates; an authority which none of us moderns have presumed to dispute.
There are many inclinations of our youth which are even strengthened with our years; and a slight tendency to a particular object in our boyhood, often becomes with us a passion in after life. Mr. Tumbler had, at a very early age, evinced a particular affection for saccharine substances, which affection had grown with his growth, until it became a leading disposition of his character. And even so late as the year of our Lord one thousand eight hundred and thirty-seven, John Thomas Tumbler, Jr. might be often seen in the interior of a sugar hogshead, assiduously scooping out with his thumb-nail, and appropriating to the gratification of his palate, such small quantities of the article as had been left by the improvident grocer in the crevices of the staves. But, on the other hand, there are predilections far more dangerous, which we sometimes suddenly conceive, and of which we become totally unable to divest ourselves. Among these evils, the greatest is undoubtedly the love of stimulus. Mr. Tumbler at length became fond of his toddy; and from that moment we may date his decline. There were, however, palliations to be admitted for Mr. Tumbler—excuses which many who plunge into the vortex of dissipation sadly lack. His was a monotonous life, void alike of excitement, object, and interest. It was, then, a matter of course, that he should seek artificial means to supply a natural deficiency. In fact, this was almost necessary to existence. But alas! the gratification of this propensity brought on his ruin; and in the small space of six months, so complete a revolution was effected in the appearance of our hero, that he could scarcely be recognised as the same individual who was wont to frequent the market-house but a very short time before.
One day he was leaning against a post, reflecting upon the expedient he should next devise to obtain a 'horn,' when his forlorn appearance attracted the attention of a gentleman, who stopped a moment to observe more completely his wretchedness. John Thomas perceived this, and thought it a moment and an opportunity not to be disregarded. So, crossing the street, he addressed the stranger, informing him, in moving accents, that he was 'a poor miserable cre'tur, 'at hadn't had nothing to eat for upwards of some time, and 'at hadn't seen a bed, for God knows when!' The stranger, in consideration of his distressing situation, gave him a small piece of money; and the mendicant, after satisfying himself of its value, very politely invited his benefactor to go and take a drink with him!
It may not be amiss here, to describe the habiliments of John Thomas, in contrast with the appearance they presented some months before. The article which adorned his head, would not, at first sight, have been taken for a hat. The crown and body were not as closely allied as they had once been. The former now hung back, attached only by a slight ligament to the latter. Interesting pieces of rim were here and there observable; and its original color had long since been changed to a greasy brown. His coat, the donation of some charitable Falstaff, might have been altered to have fitted better, infinitely better. The body hung down some three or four inches below the hips, while the skirt, as he promenaded, almost swept the ground. The sleeves were rolled up at the elbows, much to the prejudice of the appearance of the lining; and the collar behind formed an admirable barricade for the preservation of the latter part of Mr. Tumbler's head. In truth, that gentleman himself was once heard to remark, that 'it was wastly conwenient as a pillow.' Of his vest we have already spoken; and it needs but to add, that time had somewhat impaired it, and that although but one button graced its ample front, it was still a garment not to be deemed entirely valueless. His pantaloons could not have been derived from the same source as the coat, for they fitted him with a tightness which absolutely jeopardized them at every movement, and gave to his person, as he moved along, the appearance of a huge penguin. His boots were likewise very venerable, and but for the sake of appearances, as John Thomas himself very truly observed, he might as well be entirely bare-footed. The sole of one of them, however, though but partially attached to the upper, was perfect of itself; although the big toe protruded from the breach with an obstinacy truly mortifying to the sensibility of the wearer, who would sit upon a fire-plug, and contemplate it with that humiliation which we are all apt to feel on similar occasions. The sole of the other boot had 'long since vanished,' as Count Rhodolpho sings in 'La Somnambula;' and the upper, which was immensely capacious, would sometimes slew so far round, as to disclose to observation the whole of his right foot. This was a matter of more vexation to him than the imperfection of its fellow; for he was often obliged to confine its sides with pieces of twine, in order to keep it in its proper place; an occupation extremely irksome, and but ill adapted to his easy propensities.
Mr. Tumbler was not only a lover of music, but was likewise a professor of the divine art. During the delightful summer evenings, he would sit for hours on some cellar-door, producing strains from a jews-harp, whose melody floated enchantingly upon the air, adding still more to the witchery of the time, and causing a secret wish to arise, that it might be evening all the year round. There is a sympathy in music not to be withstood; and when a particular chord is struck, if it find a unison in human feeling, the sternest heart must melt at its thrill. Upon a particular moonlight night, our hero established himself upon a door-sill, and taking out his instrument, commenced the beautiful and pathetic ballad of 'Lord Lovell and Lady Nancy.' For a while he played on with no more interest than a performer usually exhibits in the execution of a piece. At length, however, he began to revert to the sorrows of the Lady Nancy, and the tears were seen stealing, one by one, down his countenance. Thought begat thought, and sympathy begat sympathy, until Mr. Tumbler, overpowered by his feelings, took the jews-harp from his mouth, and commenced sobbing like a child. For a full half hour he continued to weep, and might have kept on for an hour longer, had not a hard-hearted servant girl emptied a bucket of ancient soap-suds upon him, from the third-story window. This libation at once cooled his sorrows. Shaking the unpleasing liquid from his garments, he crossed over to the market-house, in order to seek that repose which always waits upon innocence and self-approbation.
We come now to one of the darkest passages of our hero's life; an event which we chronicle with a tear; and which nothing but an imperative sense of duty, as faithful biographers, would compel us to narrate. There breathes not the man, no matter where you may seek him, whose career has been, in every instance, one of purity, who can look back upon his past life, without remembering some action that brings a feeling of remorse, and who can declare upon his honor that he has done nothing but what has been perfectly justifiable in the eyes of God and his fellow-men. Why then should it be expected that Mr. Tumbler should prove an exception to all mankind? It is not to be—it ought not to be.
Mr. Tumbler was one day passing along the street, when his attention was arrested by a stone jug, which he observed beside an awning-post. He stopped, looked a moment at the vessel, and then at the pavers who were working in the street, and to whom the jug evidently belonged. Mr. Tumbler then reflected a moment, turned about to satisfy himself that no one observed him, picked up the jug, shook it, reconnoitred again, hesitated an instant, and placing it under his coat, leisurely walked on. Unfortunately, however, for his success, the jug was missed. He was seen, suspected, pursued, caught, and taken by the collar before his honor the mayor. That dispenser of justice was induced to believe that he was an old offender; and accordingly ordered his pockets to be examined. But however Mr. Tumbler might have erred, in regard to the abstraction of the jug, he was nevertheless innocent of other crimes of the kind; and nothing rewarded the search, save an onion, and the fragment of a Bologna sausage. He was, however, in consequence of the affair on hand, imprisoned in the city gaol for the space of thirty days; which confinement, we have been informed, he bore with the resignation of a Christian, and the fortitude of a hero. At length he was released; but he came out an altered man. His spirits had been broken down by the disgrace he had suffered, and he now plunged deeper than ever into dissipation, seeking in its excitement to drive away the memory of the past. Happy, indeed, would it have been, had his sensibilities been less refined; but, like the flower which shrinks from the touch, he avoided all intercourse with his fellow-men, wrapping himself up in the gloom of his own thoughts, neglecting his jews-harp, neglecting himself, and neglected by the world.
Not a great while after our hero's release from incarceration, he might have been observed strolling leisurely along the wharf, with the manner of one who has no definite object of pursuit, and who is willing to amuse himself with whatever the time and place might present. As his eye rolled onward, he espied a cask, upon the head of which was written, in large black letters, the word 'Cogniac.' But he little thought that fatal word was to him what the hand-writing upon the wall had been to the mighty Belshazzar. He little thought that the simple word 'Cogniac' was applied to him, at that moment, in as terrible a warning as was the 'Mene, mene, tekel, upharsin!' which foretold to the Chaldean king the destruction of his life and empire.