University of Virginia Library

MAJOR GASDEN'S STORY.

No one told a story better than old Major Gasden—
in fact he could detail very commonplace incidents so
dramatically, that he would give them a real interest.
He had met with a little incident on his first visit to
New Orleans, that was to him a source of either constant
humor or annoyance. Whichever view he took
of the adventure, gave character to his illustration of it.

The “major,” on a certain occasion, formed one of
a happy party, and growing communicative under the influence
of genial society and old port, was imprudent
enough to call on several persons near and around him
for songs and sentiments—which calls being promptly
honored,—the Major very unexpectedly found himself
under the immense obligation of doing something for his
friends himself; and as he could not sing, and hated salt
water, he compromised, by relating the following personal
adventure.

We give it as nearly verbatim as possible, but must
premise, that from an occasional twinkle that we noticed
in the Major's eyes, we have never been perfectly satisfied
that he did not, to use the language of an Irish
friend of ours, “make an intentional mistake.”

“There ought to be nothing about a dinner, generally
speaking,” commenced the Major, “to make it an
era in one's history in any way.

“The power merely to gratify the appetite just sufficient
to sustain life, is eating in poverty; a life spent
merely in gratifying the appetite, is brutal. We like a
good dinner, and we sit down to one with that complacency
of feeling that denotes a thankfulness, that may
properly be called, a silent blessing; yet we feel more
pity for a man who recollects his bad dinners, than we do
for one who distinctly remembers his good ones. In every-day
life, things commemorative often start from the table.
`Do you remember,' says Gustibus, `that so and
so happened the day we ate the fresh salmon?' `I remember
the event,' replies Dulce, `from that exquisite
bon-mot uttered on the occasion.'

“I remember my first dinner in New Orleans as distinctly
as I remember my first love. I trust it was impressed
upon my mind through the excitement of the
intellect, as well as through the gratification of the senses.
As I journeyed on to New Orleans for the first time,
I naturally suggested to my travelling companion, my
desire to be most pleasantly provided for while in the

city, and contrary to his usual custom, he launched forth
in cloquent declamation upon the table of his host, drew
pictures of luxuries that threw my most sanguine anticipations
of good living into the shade, and caused me to
look forward with an interest to the gratification of my
palate that I had never before indulged in.

“I landed on the `levee' of New Orleans in the middle
of the morning; although it was early spring, a glorious
sun, such as Pomona loves, was making every thing
look gay; the swollen Mississippi dashed a few waves
over the artificial barrier that confined it to its channel,
and as they crowded along in little rivulets, they sparkled
like molten silver and gold, indicative, as we thought,
of the wealth which was borne upon its waters, and
paid tribute to the city.

“I need not say where I ate my first dinner in New
Orleans. The dining hall was a long one and the diners
numerous. I made my entrance after the soup dishes
had done their office, and was, of course, a little late.

`It might have been the exercise, or excitement,
or a hastily-eaten breakfast, that made me feel in the
spirit of enjoying a good dinner, for I was unusually
disposed that way; and looked down the long tables,
crowded to excess, with great concern, for fear there
would be no room for me, until that melancholy time,
when gravies cool into water and globules of fat, and
meats are just as warm as when alive; the cruets half
filled, and the cloth awry. I trembled at the prospect,

when, to my inexpressible relief, on my left, near the
door, at the top of the two long dining tables, was a
small round one, at which sat some six or eight gentlemen.
A single chair was unoccupied, and without ceremony,
I appropriated it to myself.

“I never saw a man come in late to dinner who did not
endeavor to look around on the company present, with
that sort of expression which signifies `Who cares if I
did come in late?' I looked that way, and happened to
feel so too; and as I cast my eyes on the gentlemen at
my right and left, and before me, I paid no attention
whatever to the cold stare I met with, as if intending
to make me feel that I was intruding.

“In this excellent humor with all the world and myself,
I asked the waiter with a loud voice for soup, hot if
possible, and I found myself accommodated in the twinkling
of a ladle. I went to work lustily to lay the foundation
of what my friend in the morning had promised,
an extra splendid dinner.

“Oysters and fish, as a first course, seem to be
founded in nature, reason, and taste,—I accordingly
made the reflection to the gentleman on my right—he
very formally assented to the proposition, and ate sparingly.
I pressed him with great solicitude to follow my
example,—and do justice to the viands before him. He
suggested that he was troubled with a dyspepsia. This
little conversation was received by the whole table with
what I remember now, and then for a moment, thought

was an unnecessary quantity of laughter, particularly by
a gentleman at the foot of the table, presuming I sat at
the head. This person, however, had a sparkling eye
and a rubicund nose, and I concluded that he was easily
pleased, and thought nothing more of the matter; at
the same time feeling great sympathy for my friend on
my right, whom I set down as a very bashful man.

“The venison, all trembling about in its dish, with
its spirit lamps, and wine condiments, was very beautiful
indeed, but to me not so much of a rarity as it would
have been, had I not lived in a country where deer were
plenty. Determined to call out the bashful man, I observed
to him if I had had the arrangement of the
dinner, I should have ordered roast beef, as I had understood
New Orleans was growing quite celebrated for
that dish. The bashful man smiled, the rest of the
table were delighted, and it was agreed that it was a
most valuable suggestion.

“Thus encouraged, I went on to inform all present,
that, the sweetest venison I ever tasted was while
`travelling on the frontier;' that it was not cooked
like the steaks in the chafing dish before us, but merely
jerked off of the carcass, thrown on living coals of fire,
and then while steaming hot, devoured with the simple
addition of pepper and salt. Hereupon the gentleman
with the rubicund nose, told the bashful man that this
second suggestion of mine was invaluable, and another
unnecessarily hearty laugh followed.

“Prairie hens of a most delicate flavor followed
after the meats; they were really delicious; they came
from Illinois, somebody said, and showed the enterprise
of the landlord of the hotel—so I thought and uttered,
and my feelings in this matter were entirely appreciated
by the little group around me.

“The becasse, as they were announced, excited my
unbounded astonishment; there they were, in a large
dish, packed side by side `like newly-married couples,'
round as globes, and looking as inviting as ice in
August.

“I took one in my plate, turned it over and over,
and discovered to my horror that the bird had probably
committed suicide by running its own bill through its
body, and as I drew it out I ejaculated,

“`Woodcock, as I live!!”'

“My bashful friend responded, `Exactly so.'

“I helped every body; the birds flew about under
my administration as if they were alive and mad, and
there was a general display of the most cheering good
humor at my beneficent liberality.

“In the mean time, the two long tables of the hotel
were deserted, the waiters at them were walking about
munching bits of bread and other odd ends, piling up
plates, and `clearing off;' but our little party grew
more and more merry and happy, wine, delicious and
old, flowed freely; course after course followed, and then
came a thousand varieties of the confectioner's skill.

“Toasts and sentiments, really new, were engendered
by the old wine, songs sentimental and patriotic; bosom
friends were we all, mingling together as sweetly and
harmoniously as the waters of the vale of Avoca.

“For my own part, I was particularly happy in my
feelings and remarks, whatever I said was received with
a roar, in fact I never met with the same number of
gentlemen so easily pleased and so congenial.

“The sun gradually sunk in the west, and the suggestion
of candles by an attendant proved a signal for
departure—one more glass around and a sentiment from
myself was to finish. Requesting all to fill to the brim,
I raised my glass on high, and thus addressed my
friends:

“`Gentlemen—I have heard much of the fine tables
spread in New Orleans, particularly of this hotel, and
of the enterprise of its host. I have heard nothing equal
to their respective or joint merits (great applause, the
rubicund nosed man breaking his glass in enthusiasm).
The whole of this affair is only surpassed in my experience,
or most inflated dreams, by you, gentlemen (casting
a sort of patronising look around me), by you, gentlemen,—in
your social, literary, and scientific attainments'—
(tremendous cheering).

“I concluded, in a halo of glory, with `A health to
our host.”

“This speech or sentiment—was drank to the bottom,
two gentlemen fell under the table, and four suspender

buttons rattled against the windows opposite me. Shaking
hands with all who could go through the ceremony,
I left the table, whereon had been eaten the best dinner
of my life—where I had met the cleverest party ever
assembled to my knowledge; such was my first dinner in
New Orleans.

“It was nearly one o'clock at night, when I met my
friend with whom I had parted in the morning. I found
him in his room suffering from a severe attack of the colic;
I was still under the pleasurable excitement of my dinner,
its effects were still radiating about my brain like
heat from a cooling stove. I was very communicative
about the events of the day, and among other things exceedingly
grateful to my sick friend for introducing me
to such a splendid hotel and to such good dinners.

“`Good dinners,' he groaned, `do I look as if I had
eaten a good dinner? nearly dead from swallowing cabbage
and pork.'

“The very mention of such gross aliment made me
sick, and I asked him where he dined, with undisguised
alarm.

“`In the hotel, to be sure,' was his reply.

“I told him that he was dreaming, and to convince
him, gave him a hurried description of my own dinner
at the same time and place. The severe pains of the
colic could not altogether destroy the mysterious meaning
of my friend's eyes as he looked up, and informed
me that the table I sat down at was a private table, and

the dinner that had given me so much satisfaction was
a “game dinner,” got up at great expense, and under
the immediate superintendence of celebrated bon
vivants.

“The conceit of my ability to amuse a party of
strangers at the social board, vanished into thin air; the
cause of the wit of my jokes was revealed,—fortunate,
indeed, as I was, in eating a good dinner, I was still
more fortunate in meeting with a party of gentlemen,
who were too delicate to hint at any explanations that
would, in their presence, inform me of my amusing mistake.