University of Virginia Library

THE CHARACTER OF A NATIVE GEORGIAN.

There are some yet living, who knew the man whose
character I am about to delineate; and these will unanimously
bear testimony, that if it be not faithfully drawn,
it is not overdrawn. They cannot avouch for the truth
of the anecdotes which I am about to relate of him,
because of these they know nothing; but they will unhesitatingly
declare, that there is nothing herein ascribed
to him, of which he was incapable, and of which he
would not readily have been the author, supposing the
scenes in which I have placed him to be real, and the
thoughts and actions attributed to him, to have actually
suggested themselves to him. They will further testify,
that the thoughts and actions, are in perfect harmony
with his general character.

I do not feel at liberty as yet to give the name of the
person in question, and therefore, he shall be designated
for the present, by the appellation of Ned Brace.

This man seemed to live only to amuse himself with his
fellow-beings, and he possessed the rare faculty,of deriving

some gratification of his favorite propensity, from almost
every person with whom he met, no matter what his
temper, standing or disposition. Of course he had opportunities
enough of exercising his uncommon gift, and
he rarely suffered an opportunity to pass unimproved.
The beau in the presence of his mistress, the fop, the
pedant, the purse-proud, the over-fastidious and sensitive,
were Ned's favorite game. These never passed him
uninjured; and against such, he directed his severest
shafts. With these he commonly amused himself, by
exciting in them every variety of emotion, under circumstances
peculiarly ridiculous. He was admirably
fitted to his vocation. He could assume any character
which his humor required him to personate, and he could
sustain it to perfection. His knowledge of the character
of others, seemed to be intuitive.

It may seem remarkable, but it is true, that though he
lived his own peculiar life for about sixteen years, after
he reached the age of manhood, he never involved himself
in a personal recounter with any one. This was
owing in part to his muscular frame, which few would
be willing to engage; but more particularly to his
adroitness in the management of his projects of fun.
He generally conducted them in such a way, as to render
it impossible for any one to call him to account, without
violating all the rules of decency, politeness and chivalry
at once. But a few anecdotes of him, will give the
reader a much better idea of his character, than he can
possibly derive from a general description. If these
fulfil the description which I have given of my hero, all
will agree that he is no imaginary being: if they do
not, it will only be, because I am unfortunate in my selection.
Having known him from his earliest manhood
to his grave—for he was a native Georgian—I confess,
that I am greatly perplexed, in determining what portions

of his singular history, to lay before the reader, as a
proper specimen of the whole. A three day's visit,
which I once made with him to Savannah, placed him in
a greater variety of scenes, and among a greater diversity
of characters, than perhaps any other period of his
life, embracing no longer time; and therefore, I will
choose this for my purpose.

We reached Savannah just at night-fall, of a cold
December's evening. As we approached the tavern of
Mr. Blank, at which we designed to stop, Ned proposed
to me, that we should drop our acquaintance, until he
should choose to renew it. To this proposition I most
cordially assented, for I knew, that so doing, I should
be saved some mortifications, and avoid a thousand
questions, which I would not know how to answer.
According to this understanding, Ned lingered behind,
in order that I might reach the tavern alone.

On alighting at the public house, I was led into a large
dining-room, at the entrance of which, to the right, stood
the bar, opening into the dining-room. On the left, and
rather nearer to the centre of the room, was a fire-place,
surrounded by gentlemen. Upon entering the room,
my name was demanded at the bar: it was given, and
I took my seat in the circle around the fire. I had been
seated just long enough for the company to survey me
to their satisfaction, and resume their conversation, when
Ned's heavy footstep at the door, turned the eyes of the
company to the approaching stranger.

“Your name sir, if you please?” said the restless little
bar-keeper, as he entered.

Ned stared at the question with apparent alarm—
cast a fearful glance at the company—frowned and
shook his head in token of caution to the bar-keeper—
looked confused for a moment—then, as if suddenly recollecting
himself, jirked a piece of paper out of his

pocket—turned from the company—wrote on it with his
pencil—handed it to the bar-keeper—walked to the left
of the fire-place, and took the most conspicuous seat in
the circle. He looked at no one, spoke to no one; but
fixing his eyes on the fire, lapsed into a profound reverie.

The conversation, which had been pretty general
before, stopped as short, as if every man in the room
had been shot dead. Every eye was fixed on Ned, and
every variety of expression was to be seen on the countenances
of the persons present. The landlord came in
—the bar-keeper whispered to him and looked at Ned.
The landlord looked at him too with astonishment and
alarm—the bar-keeper produced a piece of paper, and
both of them examined it, as if searching for a fig-mite with
the naked eye. They rose from the examination unsatisfied,
and looked at Ned again. Those of the company who
recovered first from their astonishment, tried to revive the
conversation; but the effort was awkward, met with no
support, and failed. The bar-keeper, for the first time
in his life, became dignified and solemn, and left the bar
to take care of itself. The landlord had a world of
foolish questions to ask the gentlemen directly opposite
to Ned, for which purpose he passed round to them
every two minutes, and the answer to none did he hear.

Three or four boarders coming in, who were unapprized
of what had happened, at length revived the conversation;
not however, until they had created some confusion,
by enquiring of their friends, the cause of their
sober looks. As soon as the conversation began to become
easy and natural, Ned rose, and walked out into
the entry. With the first movement, all were as hush as
death; but when he had cleared the door, another Babel
scene ensued. Some enquired, others suspected, and all
wondered. Some were engaged in telling the strangers
what had happened, others were making towards the

bar, and all were becoming clamorous, when Ned returned
and took his seat. His re-entry was as fatal to
conversation, as was the first movement of his exit; but
it soon recovered from the shock—with the difference,
however, that those who led before, were now mute,
and wholly absorbed in the contemplation of Ned's
person.

After retaining his seat for about ten minutes, Ned
rose again, enquired the way to the stable, and left the
house. As soon as he passed the outer door, the bar-keeper
hastened to the company with Ned's paper in his
hand. “Gentlemen,” said he, “can any of you tell me
what name this is?” All rushed to the paper in an
instant—one or two pair of heads met over it with considerable
force. After pondering over it to their heart's
content, they all agreed that the first letter was an “E”
and the second a “B” or an “R,” and the d—l himself
could not make out the balance. While they were thus
engaged, to the astonishment of every body, Ned interrupted
their deliberations with “gentlemen, if you have
satisfied yourselves with that paper, I'll thank you for
it.” It is easy to imagine, but impossible to describe the
looks and actions of the company, under their surprise
and mortification. They dropt off and left the bar-keeper
to his appropriate duty, of handing the paper to Ned.
He reached it forth, but Ned moved not a hand to receive
it, for about the space of three seconds; during
which time he kept his eyes fixed upon the arch-offender
in awfully solemn rebuke. He then took it gravely and
put it in his pocket, and left the bar-keeper, with a shaking
ague upon him. From this moment he became Ned's
most obsequious and willing slave.

Supper was announced; Mrs. Blank, the landlady,
took the head of the table, and Ned seated himself next
to her. Her looks denoted some alarm at finding him

so near to her; and plainly showed, that he had been
fully described to her by her husband, or some one else.

“Will you take tea or coffee, sir?” said she.

“Why madam,” said Ned, in a tone as courteous as
Chesterfield himself could have used, “I am really
ashamed to acknowledge and to expose my very singular
appetite; but habitual indulgence of it, has made it necessary
to my comfort, if not to my health, that I should
still favor it when I can. If you will pardon me, I will
take both at the same time.”

This respectful reply, (which, by the way, she alone
was permitted to hear,) had its natural effect. It won
for him her unqualified indulgence, raised doubts whether
he could be the suspicious character which had been
described to her, and begat in her a desire to cultivate
a further acquaintance with him. She handed to him
the two cups, and accompanied them with some remarks
drawn from her own observation in the line of her business,
calculated to reconcile him to his whimsical appetite;
but she could extract from Ned nothing but monosyllables,
and sometimes not even that much. Consequently,
the good lady began very soon to relapse into
her former feelings.

Ned placed a cup on either side of him, and commenced
stirring both at the same time very deliberately. This
done, he sipped a little tea, and asked Mrs. B. for a drop
more milk in it. Then he tasted his coffee, and desired
a little more sugar in it. Then he tasted his tea again
and requested a small lump more sugar in it—Lastly he
tasted his coffee, and desired a few drops more milk in
that. It was easy to discover, that before he got suited,
the landlady had solemnly resolved, never to offer any
more encouragements to such an appetite. She waxed
exceedingly petulent, and having nothing else to scold,
she scolded the servants of course.

Waffles were handed to Ned, and he took one: batter-cakes
were handed, and he took one; and so on of muffins,
rolls, and corn bread. Having laid in these provisions,
he turned into his plate, upon his waffle and batter-cake,
some of the crums of the several kinds of bread which he
had taken, in different proportions, and commenced
mashing all together with his knife. During this operation
the landlady frowned and pouted,—the servants
giggled,—and the boarders were variously affected.

Having reduced his mess to the consistency of a hard
poultice, he packed it all up to one side of his plate in
the form of a terrapin, and smoothed it all over nicely
with his knife. Nearly opposite to Ned, but a little below
him, sat a waspish little gentleman, who had been watching
him with increasing torments, from the first to the
last movement of Ned's knife. His tortures were visible
to blinder eyes than Ned's, and doubtless had been seen
by him in their earliest paroxysms. This gentleman
occupied a seat nearest to a dish of steak, and was in the
act of muttering something about `brutes' to his next
neighbor, when Ned beckoned a servant to him, and requested
him “to ask that gentleman for a small bit of
steak.” The servant obeyed, and planting Ned's plate
directly between the gentleman's and the steak-dish, delivered
his message. The testy gentleman turned his
head, and the first thing he saw was Ned's party-coloured
terrapin, right under his nose. He started as if he
had been struck by a snapping-turtle—reddened to scarlet—looked
at Ned, (who appeared as innocent as a
lamb)—looked at the servant, (who appeared as innocent
as Ned) and then fell to work on the steak, as if he
were amputating all Ned's limbs at once.

Ned now commenced his repast. He ate his meat
and breads in the usual way; but he drank his liquids
in all ways. First a sip of tea, then of coffee; then

two of the first and one of the last; then three of the
last, and one of the first, and so on.

His steak was soon consumed, and his plate was a
second time returned to the mettlesome gentleman “for
another very small bit of steak.” The plate paid its
second visit, precisely as it had its first; and as soon as
the fiery gentleman saw the half-demolished terrapin
again under his nose, he seized a fork, drove it into the
largest slice of steak in the dish, dashed it into Ned's
plate, rose from the table, and left the room; cursing
Ned from the very inmost chamber of his soul. Every
person at the table, except Ned, laughed outright at the
little man's fury; but Ned did not even smile—nay, he
looked for all the world, as if he thought the laugh was
at him.

The boarders, one after another, retired, until Ned
and the landlady were left alone at the table.

“Will you have another cup of tea and coffee sir?”
said she, by the way of convincing him that he ought to
retire, seeing that he had finished his supper.

“No I thank you madam,” returned Ned.

“Will you have a glass of milk and a cup of tea or
coffee; or all three together?”

“No ma'am,” said Ned. “I am not blind madam,”
continued he, “to the effects which my unfortunate eccentricities
have produced upon yourself and your company;
nor have I witnessed them without those feelings
which they are well calculated to inspire in a man of
ordinary sensibilities. I am aware, too, that I am prolonging
and aggravating your uneasiness, by detaining
you beyond the hour which demands your presence at
the table; but I could not permit you to retire, without
again bespeaking your indulgence of the strange, unnatural
appetite, which has just caused you so much astonishment
and mortification. The story of its beginning

might be interesting, and certainly would be instructing
to you if you are a mother: but I am indisposed at this
time to obtrude it upon your patience, and I presume you
are still less disposed to hear it. My principal object,
however, in claiming your attention for a moment at this
time, is to assure you, that out of respect to your feelings,
I will surrender the enjoyment of my meals for the few
days that I have to remain in Savannah, and conform to
the customs of your table. The sudden change of my
habits will expose me to some inconvenience, and may
perhaps effect my health; but I willingly incur these
hazards, rather than to renew your mortification, or to
impose upon your family the trouble of giving me my
meals at my room.”

The good lady, whose bitter feelings had given place
to the kinder emotion of pity and benevolence, before
Ned had half concluded his apology, (for it was delivered
in a tone of the most melting eloquence,) caught at this
last hint, and insisted upon sending his meals to his room.
Ned reluctantly consented, after extorting a pledge from
her, that she would assume the responsibilities of the
trouble that he was about to give the family.

“As to your boarders, madam,” said Ned, in conclusion,
“I have no apology to make to them. I grant
them the privilege of eating what they please, and as
they please; and so far as they are concerned I shall
exercise the same privileges, reckless of their feelings or
opinions; and I shall take it as a singuular favor if you
will say nothing to them or to any one else, which may
lead them to the discovery, that I am acquainted with
my own peculiarities.”

The good lady promised obedience to his wishes, and
Ned, requesting to be conducted to the room, retired.

A group of gentlemen at the fire-place had sent many
significant “hems” and smiles to Mrs. Blank, during her

tete a tete with Ned; and as she approached them, on
her way out of the room, they began to taunt her playfully,
upon the impression which she seemed to have
made upon the remarkable stranger.

“Really,” said one, “I thought the impression was
on the other side.”

“And in truth, so it was,” said Mrs. B. At this moment
her husband stept in.

“I'll tell you what it is, Mr. Blank,” said one of the
company, “you'd better keep a sharp look out on that
stranger; our landlady is wonderfully taken with him.”

“I'll be bound,” said Mr. B. “for my wife; the less
like any body else in the world he is, the better will she
like him.”

“Well I assure you,” said Mrs. B. “I never had my
feelings so deeply interested in a stranger in my life.
I'd give the world to know his history.”

“Why, then,” rejoined the landlord; “I suppose he
has been quizzing us all this time.”

“No,” said she, “he is incapable of quizzing. All
that you have seen of him is unaffected, and perfectly
natural to him.”

“Then, really,” continued the husband, “he is a very
interesting object, and I congratulate you upon getting
so early into his confidence; but as I am not quite as
much captivated with his unaffected graces as you
seem to be, I shall take the liberty, in charity to the
rest of my boarders, of requesting him to-morrow, to
seek other lodgings.”

“Oh,” exclaimed Mrs. B. in the goodness of her heart,
and with a countenance evincive of the deepest feeling,
“I would not have you do such a thing for the world.
He's only going to stay a few days.”

“How do you know?”

“He told me so, and do let's bear with him that short

time. He sha'nt trouble you or the boarders any more.”

“Why Sarah,” said the landlord, “I do believe you
are out of your senses!”

“Gone case!” said one boarder. “Terrible affair!”
said another. “Bewitching little fellow,” said a third.
“Come, Mrs. Blank, tell us all he said to you? We
young men wish to know how to please the ladies, so
that we may get wives easily. I'm determined the next
party I go to, to make a soup of every thing on the waiters,
and eat all at once. I shall then become irresistible
to the ladies.”

“Get along with your nonsense,” said Mrs. B. smiling
as she left the room.

At 8 o'clock, I retired to my room, which happened
(probably from the circumstance of our reaching the
hotel within a few minutes of each other,) to be adjoining
Ned's. I had no sooner entered my room, than Ned
followed me, where we interchanged the particulars
which make up the foregoing story. He now expended
freely the laughter which he had been collecting during
the evening. He stated that his last interview with Mrs.
Blank, was the result of necessity—That he found he
had committed himself in making up and disposing of
his odd supper; for that he should have to eat in the same
way, during his whole stay in Savannah, unless he could
manage to get his meals in private; and though he was
willing to do penance for one meal, in order to purchase
the amusement which he had enjoyed, he had no idea of
tormenting himself three or four days for the same purpose.
To tell you the honest truth, said he, nothing but
an appetite whetted by fasting and travelling, could have
borne me through the table scene. As it was, my
stomach several times threatened to expose my tricks to
the whole company, by downright open rebellion. I
feel that I must make it some atonement for the liberty I

have taken with it; and therefore, propose that we go
out and get an oyster supper before we retire to rest. I
assented: we set out, going separately, until we reached
the street.

We were received by the oyster-vender, in a small
shop, which fronted upon the street, and were conducted
through it to a back door, and thence, by a flight of steps,
to a convenient room, on a second floor of an adjoining
building. We had been seated about three minutes,
when we heard footsteps on the stairs, and distinctly
caught this sentence from the ascending stranger:
“Aha, Monsieur Middletong! you say you hab de bes
oystar in de cittee? Well, me shall soon see.”

The sentence was hardly uttered, before the door
opened, and in stept a gay, smerky little Frenchman.
He made us a low bow, and as soon as he rose from his
obeisance, Ned rushed to him in transports of joy—
seized him by the hand, and shaking it with friendship's
warmest grasp, exclaimed, “How do you do my old
friend—I had no idea of meeting you here—how do you
do Mr. Squeezelfanter? how have you been this long
time?”

“Sair,” said the Frenchman, “me tank you ver' much
to lub me so hard; but you mistake de gentleman—my
name is not de Squeezilfaunter.”

“Come, come John,” continued Ned, “quit your old
tricks before strangers. Mr. Hall, let me introduce you
to my particular friend, John Squeezelfanter, from Paris.”

“Perhaps, sir,” said I—not knowing well what to say,
or how to act in such an emergency—“perhaps you
have mistaken the gentleman.”

“Begar, sair,” said Monsieur, “he is mistake ebery
ting at once. My name is not Zhaun, me play no treek,
me is not de gentilmong fren', me did not come from
Paree, but from Bordeaux—and me did not suppose

dare was one man in all France, dat was name de
Squeezilfaunter.”

“If I am mistaken,” said Ned, “I humbly ask your
pardon; but really, you look so much like my old friend
Jack, and talk so much like him, that I would have
sworn you were he.”

“Vel sair,” said Monsieur, looking at Ned as though
he might be an acquaintance after all—“vell sair, dis
time you tell my name right—my name is Jacques[1]
—Jacques Sancric.

“There,” proceeded Ned, “I knew it was impossible
I could be mistaken—your whole family settled on Sandy
Creek—I knew your father and mother, your sister
Patsy and Dilsy, your brother Ichabod, your aunt
Bridget, your —.”

“Oh mon Dieu, mon Dieu!” exclaimed the Frenchman,
no longer able to contain his surprise; “dat is von
'Mericane familee. Dare vas not one French familee
hab all dat name since dis vorl' vas make.”

“Now look at me good Jack,” said Ned, “and see if
you don't recollect your old friend Obadiah Snoddleburg,
who used to play with you when a boy, in Sandy
Creek.”

“Vel, Monsieur Snotborg, me look at you ver' well;
and begar me neber see you in de creek, nor out de
creek—'Tis ver' surprise, you not know one name, from
one creek.”

“Oh, very well sir, very well, I forgot where I was
—I understand you now perfectly. You are not the
first gentleman I have met with in Savannah, who knew
me well in the country, and forgot me in town. I ask
your pardon sir, and hope you'll excuse me.”

“Me is ver' will to know you now, sair; but begar
me will not tell you one lie, to know you twenty-five and
tirty years ago.”

“It makes no difference sir,” said Ned, looking
thoughtfully and chagrined. “I beg leave, however,
before we close our acquaintance; to correct one mistake
which I made.—I said you were from Paris—I believe
on reflection, I was wrong—I think your sister
Dilsy told me you were from Bordeaux.”

“Foutre, de sist, Dils!—Here Monsieur Middletong!
My oystar ready?”

“Yes sir.”

“Vel, if my oystar ready, you give dem to my fren'
Monsieur Snotborg; and ask him to be so good to carry
dem to my sist' Dils, and my brodder Ichbod on Sand'
Creek.”—So saying, he vanished like lightning.

The next morning at breakfast, I occupied Ned's seat.
Mrs. Blank had no sooner taken her place, than she
ordered a servant to bring her a watter; upon which
she placed a cup of tea, and another of coffee—then
ordering three plates, she placed them on it; sent one
servant for one kind of bread, and another for another,
and so on through all the varieties that were on the table,
from which she made selections for plate No. 1. In the
same way did she collect meats for plate No. 2—No. 3
she left blank. She had nearly completed her operations,
when her husband came to know why every servant
was engaged, and no gentleman helped to any
thing, when the oddly furnished waiter met his eye, and
fully explained the wonder.

“In God's name, Sarah,” said he, “who are you
mixing up those messes for?”

“For that strange gentleman we were speaking of
last night,” was the reply.

“Why doesn't he come to the table?”

“He was very anxious to come, but I would not let
him.”

“You would not let him! Why not?”

“Because I did not wish to see a man of his delicate
sensibilities ridiculed and insulted at my table.”

“Delicate devilabilities! Then why did'nt you
send a servant to collect his mixtures?”

“Because I preferred doing it myself, to troubling the
boarders. I knew that wherever his plates went, the
gentlemen would be making merry over them, and I
could'nt bear to see it.”

The landlord looked at her for a moment, with commingled
astonishment, doubt, and alarm; and then upon
the breath of a deep drawn sigh proceeded.—

`Wen, d—n[2] the man! He has'nt been in the house
more than two hours, except when he was asleep, and
he has insulted one half my boarders, made fools of the
other half, turned the head of my bar-keeper, crazed all
my servants, and run my wife right stark, staring, raving
mad— A man who is a perfect clown in his manners,
and who, I have no doubt, will, in the end, prove to be
a horse thief.”

Much occurred between the landlord and his lady in
relation to Ned, which we must of necessity omit. Suffice
it to say, that her assiduties to Ned, her unexplained
sympathies for him, her often repeated desires to become
better acquainted with him, conspiring with one or two
short interviews which her husband saw between her
and Ned, (and which consisted of nothing more than expressions
of regret on his part, at the trouble he was
giving the family, and assurrance on hers, that it was no

trouble at all,) began to bring upon the landlord, the
husband's worst calamity. This she soon observed, and
considering her duty to her husband as of paramount
obligation, she gave him an explanation that was entirely
satisfactory. She told him that Ned was a man of refined
feelings and high cultivated mind, but that in his
infancy his mother had forced him to eat different kinds
of diet together, until she had produced in him a vitiated
and unconquerable appetite, which he was now constrained
to indulge, as the drunkard does his, or be miserable.
As the good man was prepared to believe any story of
woman's folly, he was satisfied.

This being the Sabbath, at the usual hour, Ned went
to Church, and selected for his morning's service, one of
those Churches in which the pews are free, and in which
the hymn is given out, and sung by the congregation, a
half recitative.

Ned entered the Church, in as fast a walk as he could
possibly assume—proceeded about half down the aisle,
and popt himself down in his seat as quick as if he had
been shot. The more thoughtless of the congregation
began to titter, and the graver peeped up slily, but solemnly
at him.

The Pastor rose, and before giving out the hymn, observed,
that singing was a part of the service, in which
he thought the whole congregation ought to join. Thus
saying, he gave out the first lines of the hymn. As soon
as the tune was raised, Ned struck in, with one of the
loudest, hoarsest, most discordant voices, that ever annoyed
a solemn assembly.

“I would observe,” said the preacher, before giving
out the next two lines, “that there are some persons who
have not the gift of singing; such of course are not expected
to sing.” Ned took the hint, and sang no more;
but his entrance into church, and his entrance into the

hymn, had already dispersed the solemnity of three fifths
of the congregation.

As soon as the Pastor commenced his sermon, Ned
opened his eyes, threw back his head, dropt his under-jaw,
and surrendered himself to the most intense interest.
The preacher was an indifferent one, and by as much
as he became dull and insipid, by so much did Ned become
absorbed in the discourse. And yet it was impossible
for the nicest observer to detect any thing in his
looks or manner, short of the most solemn devotion.
The effect which his conduct had upon the congregation,
and their subsequent remarks must be left to the imagination
of the reader. I give but one remark—“Bless
that good man who came in the Church so quick,” said
a venerable matron as she left the church door, “how
he was affected by the sarment.”

Ned went to church no more on that day. About
four o'clock in the afternoon, while he was standing at
the tavern, door a funeral procession passed by, at the
foot of which, and singly, walked one of the smallest
men I ever saw. As soon as he came opposite the door,
Ned stept out and joined him with great solemnity.
The contrast between the two was ludicrously striking,
and the little man's looks and uneasiness, plainly showed
that he felt it. However, he soon became reconciled to
it. They proceeded but a little way before Ned enquired
of his companion, who was dead?

“Mr. Noah Bills,” said the little man.

“Nan?” said Ned, raising his hand to his ear in token
of deafness, and bending his head to the speaker.

“Mr. Noah Bills,” repeated the little man loud
enough to disturb the two couple immediately before
him.

“Mrs. Noel's Bill!” said Ned, with mortification and
astonishment. “Do the white persons pay such respect

to niggers in Savannah? I sha'nt do it”—So saying he
left the procession.

The little man was at first considerably nettled; but
upon being left to his own reflections, he got into an uncontrollable
fit of laughter, as did the couple immediately
in advance of him, who overheard Ned's remark.
The procession now exhibited a most mortifying spectacle—The
head of it in mourning and in tears, and the
foot of it convulsed with laughter.

On Monday, Ned employed himself in disposing of
the business which brought him to Savannah, and I saw
but little of him; but I could not step into the street
without hearing of him. All talked about him, and
hardly any two agreed about his character.

On Tuesday he visited the Market, and set it all in
astonishment or laughter. He wanted to buy something
of every body, and some of every thing; but could not
agree upon the terms of a trade, because he always
wanted his articles in such portions and numbers, as no
one would sell, or upon conditions to which no one would
submit. To give a single example—He beset an old
negro woman to sell him the half of a living chicken.

“Do my good mauma, sell it to me,” said he, “my
wife is very sick, and is longing for chicken pie, and
this is all the money I have,” (holding out twelve and
a half cents in silver,) “and its just what a half chicken
comes to at your own price.”

“Ki, massa! How gwine cut live chicken in two?”

“I don't want you to cut it in two alive—kill it, clean
it, and then divide it.”

“Name o' God! What sort o' chance got to clean
chicken in de market-house!—Whay de water for scall
um, and wash um?”

“Don't scald it at all; just pick it so.”

“Ech-ech! Fedder fly all ober de buckera-man
meat, he come bang me fo' true—No massa, I mighty
sorry for your wife, but I no cutty chicken open.”

In the afternoon, Ned entered the dining room of the
tavern, and who should he find there but Monsieur Sancric,
of oyster-house memory. He and the tavern-keeper
were alone. With the first glimpse of Ned, “La
diable,” exclaimed the Frenchman, “here my broder
Ichbod gain!”—and away he went.

“Mr. Sancric!” said the landlord, calling to him as
if to tell him something just thought of, and following
him out, “What did you say that man's name is?”

“He name Monsieur Snotborg.”

“Why that can't be his name, for it begins with a B.
or an R. Where is he from?”

“From Sand Creek.”

“Where did you know him?”

“Begar, me neber did know him.” Here Ned sauntered
in sight of the Frenchman, and he vanished.

“Well,” said the landlord, as he returned, “it does
seem to me, that every body who has anything to do
with that man, runs crazy forthwith.”

When he entered the dining room he found Ned deeply
engaged reading a child's primer, with which he seemed
wonderfully delighted. The landlord sat for a moment,
smiled, and then hastily left the room. As soon as he
disappeared, Ned laid down his book, and took his station
behind some cloaks in the bar, which at the moment was
deserted. He had just reached his place, when the
landlord returned with his lady.

“Oh,” said the first, “he's gone! I brought you in to
show you what kind of books your man of `refined
feelings and highly cultivated mind' delights in—But
he has left his book, and here it is, opened at the place
where he left off—and do let's see what's in it?”

They examined, and found that he had been reading
the interesting poem of `Little Jack Horner.'

“Now,” continued the landlord, “if you'll believe
me, he was just as much delighted with that story, as
you or I would be with the best written number of the
Spectator.”

“Well, it's very strange,” said Mrs. Blank—
“I reckon he must be flighty, for no man could have
made a more gentlemanly apology than he did to me,
for his peculiarities; and no one could have urged it
more feelingly.”

“One thing is very certain,” said the husband,
“if he be not flighty himself, he has a wonderful
knack of making every body else so. Sancric ran
away from him just now, as if he had seen the devil—
called him by one name when he left the room, by
another at the door, told me where he came from, and
finally swore he did not know him at all.”

Ned having slipt softly from the bar into the entry,
during this interview, entered the dining room, as if from
the street.

“I am happy,” said he, smiling, to meet you
together and alone, upon the eve of my departure from
Savannah, that I may explain to you my singular conduct,
and ask your forgiveness of it. I will do so if you
will not expose my true character until I shall have left
the city.”

This they promised—“ My name then,” continued
he, “is Edward Brace, of Richmond county.
Humor has been my besetting sin from my youth, up.
It has sunk me far below the station to which my native
gifts entitled me. It has robbed me of the respect of all
my acquaintances; and what is much more to be regretted,
the esteem of some of my best and most indulgent
friends. All this I have long known, and I have a thousand

times deplored, and as often resolved to conquer,
my self-destroying propensity. But so deeply is it
wrought into my very nature—so completely and indissolubly
interwoven is it, with every fibre and filament
of my being, that I have found it impossible for me to
subdue it. Being on my first visit to Savannah, unknowing
and unknown, I could not forego the opportunity
which it furnished, of gratifying my ungovernable proclivity.
All the extravagancies which you have seen,
have been in subservience to it.”

He then explained the cause of his troubling the
kind lady before him, to give him his meals at his room,
and the strange conduct of Monsieur Sancric; at which
they both laughed heartily. He referred them to me
for confirmation of what he had told them. Having gone
thus far, continued he, “I must sustain my character
until to-morrow, when I shall leave Savannah.”

Having now two more to enjoy his humor with him
and myself, he let himself loose that night among the
boarders, with all his strength, and never did I see two
mortals laugh, as did Mr. and Mrs. Blank.

Far as I have extended this sketch, I cannot close,
without exhibiting Ned in one new scene, in which accident
placed him before he left Savannah.

About 2 o'clock on the morning of our departure, the
town was alarmed by the cry of fire. Ned got up before
me, and taking one of my boots from the door, and
putting one of his in its place, he marched down to the
front door with odd boots. On coming out and finding
what had been done, I knew that Ned could not have left
the house, for it was impossible for him to wear my boot.
I was about descending the stairs, when he called to me
from the front door, and said the servant had mixed our
boots, and that he had brought down one of mine. When
I reached the front door, I found Ned and Mr. and Mrs.

Blank there; all the inmates of the house having left it,
who designed to leave it, but Ned and myself.

“Don't go and leave me Hall,” said he, holding my
boot in his hand, and having his own on his leg.

“How can I leave you,” said I, “unless you'll give me
my boot?” This he did not seem to hear.

“Do run gentlemen,” said Mrs. Blank greatly alarmed
—“Mr. Brace, you've got Mr. Hall's boot, give it to
him.”

“In a minute madam,” said he, seeming to be beside
himself. A second after, however, all was explained to
me. He designed to have my company to the fire, and
his own fun before he went.

A man came posting along in great alarm, and crying
“fire” loudly. “Mister, Mister,” said Ned, jumping
out of the house.

“Sir,” said the man, stopping and puffing awfully.

“Have you seen Mr. Peleg Q. C. Stone,” along
where you've been?” enquired Ned, with anxious solicitude.

“D—n Mr. Peleg Q. C. Stone,” said the stranger,—
“What chance have I of seeing any body, hopping up
at two o'clock in the morning, and the town a fire!” and
on he went.

Thus did he amuse himself with various questions and
remarks, to four or five passengers, until even Mrs.
Blank forgot for a while, that the town was in flames.
The last object of his sport, was a woman who came
along, exclaiming, “Oh, its Mr. Dalby's house—I'm
sure it is Mr. Dalby's house!” Two gentlemen assured
her, that the fire was far beyond Mr. Dalby's house; but
still she went on with her exclamations. When she had
passed the door about ten steps, Ned permitted me to
cover my frozen foot with my boot, and we moved on
towards the fire. We soon overtook the woman just

mentioned, who had become somewhat pacified. As
Ned came along side of her, without seeming to notice
her, he observed “Poor Dalby, I see his house is gone.”

“I said so,” she screamed out—“I knew it!”—and
on she went, screaming ten times louder than before.

As soon as we reached the fire, a gentleman in military
dress rode up and ordered Ned into the line, to hand
buckets. Ned stept in, and the first bucket that was
handed to him, he raised it very deliberately to his mouth,
and began to drink. In a few seconds, all on Ned's
right, were overburdened with buckets, and calling loudly
for relief, while those on his left were unemployed. Terrible
was the cursing and clamor, and twenty voices at
once ordered Ned out of the line. Ned stept out, and
along came the man on horse back, and ordered him in
again.

“Captain,” said Ned, “I am so thirsty that I can do
nothing until I can get some water, and they will not let
me drink in the line.”

“Well,” said the Captain, “step in, and I'll see that
you get a drink.”

Ned stept in again, and receiving the first bucket, began
to raise it to his lips very slowly, when some one
halloed to him to pass on the bucket, and he brought it
down again, and handed it on.

“Why did'nt you drink,” said the Captain?

“Why don't you see they won't let me?” said Ned.

“Don't mind what they say—drink, and then go on
with your work.”

Ned took the next bucket, and commenced raising it
as before, when some one again ordered him to pass on
the bucket.

“There,” said Ned, turning to the Captain, with the
bucket half-raised, “you hear that?”

“Why, blast your eyes, said the Captain, what do you
stop for? Drink on and have done with it.”

Ned raised the bucket to his lips and drank, or pretended
to drink, until a horse might have been satisfied.

“Ain't you done?” said the Captain, general mutiny
and complaint beginning to prevail in the line.

“Why ha'nt you drank enough?” said the Captain,
becoming extremely impatient.

“Most,” said Ned, letting out a long breath, and still
holding the bucket near his lips.

“Zounds and blood!” cried the Captain, “clear
yourself—you'll drink an engine full of water.”

Ned left the ranks, and went to his lodgings; and
the rising sun found us on our way homeward.

HALL.