 | The spectre steamer, and other tales |  |
THE FRENCH JEW,
OR `KILLING TIME' IN THE JERSIES.
Taken down from the mouth of Tom King.
`Who is Tom King?'
Marry come up! not to know Tom King,
thou art thyself unknown. I will tell thee,
and so enlighten thy ignorance. Tom King
is a wit and a wag—a gentleman of infinite
humor, and overrunning with mirth. His
head is as crammed with funny stories and
humorsome anecdotes of his own time, as is
a Quaker's measure with good wheat when
he heapeth it up and runneth it over. He is
past forty, yet he hath the juvenility of twenty;
his jocund whiz giving the lie to full the
half of his years. He loveth a good dinner;
rejoiceth in good wines, and holdeth fast on
good company or, rather, it is the good company
that hold fast upon him; for few that
get him at their table, are willing soon to let
him off. Ah! he is a gentleman of infinite
jest, Tom! I wish you could see him tell one
of his stories—see him, I repeat, for he talks
with his face and twinkling gray eyes better
than with his tongue, and that he knoweth
how to use most cunningly for our divertise
ment. Oh, he is a rare wag! He will make
you run over—not with tears of sorrow,
(for grief and Tom King are strangers,) but
with tears that are the expressed essence of
delight. Thou hast not seen him neither?
He carrieth himself, then, with a goodly
height, being five feet nine, his abdomen of
a rotund shape, like a full wine skin, and
his face hath that round fullness that good
natured men do often show. His profile is
like unto Bonaparte's, more so than any man's
living, probably; in support of which assertion,
I will mention that the count Survilliers
spoke of it one day when Tom called on
him to ask leave to shoot woodcock on his
grounds eight days before the fourth of
July. He loves to stand with his arms folded
across his chest, à la Napoleon, and,
assuming the proper attitude, give you what
he calls Napoleon en bivouac; and, my
certes, when you look at Tom in this attitude,
you would swear a little distance off
he was Nappy himself. Tom has two profile
of the mantel-piece—one of Napoleon cut
from a book, the other of himself, done by
an itinerant genius with a pair of scissors,
for which Tom paid him the sum of twenty-five
cents; and the two are, in verity, as like
each other as two peas. Tom used to live
in town; but the gout growing upon him,
for which the doctors recommended the
country, and the New Albany bank having
made him a little sore by a fall of stock, he
left the city for a white cottage on a hill
half a mile beyond the last house in the
suburbs, with a patch of seven acres about
it. Here he took to farming on a scale
commensurate with the breadth of his acres.
Having a rare gift of foresight, he planted
the morus multicaulis ten years before people
began to think of it, and put his trees in
market; but nobody offering to buy, he
rooted up the whole plantation, and filled a
dry ditch with the trees. Alas, poor Tom!
he was fifteen years too early in the field.
He could have made a fortune now with his
multicaulis trees if he had them, selling each
shoot for a dollar. But Tom got the fever
prematurely. After the failure of his morus
multicaulis, Tom began to speculate in cabbages;
and with his own hands transplanted
eight rows reaching from one extremity of
his seven acre lot to the other. But one
night his cows got in and ate up all but five
of the plants, and these Tom tore up himself,
to make, as he said, a `clean sweep' of it.
Although his farming speculation have not
turned out as well as might be expected,
working in the fresh loam has quite cured
Tom of his gout, and has given a fine healthy
tan to his complexion.
How Tom came to be travelling in a stage
coach between Philadelphia and New York
he has never told; but it is sufficient for our
purpose to know that he did once travel so,
and that of the adventure related in the following
dramatic sketch `he was a part.' The
months of October and November, be it
premised, for the better understanding of
Tom's story, have been, time out of mind,
`killing time' in New Jersey. At this event
ful season, from Cape May to her northern
boundary, from the Delaware to the ocean
that laves her eastern shore, there is one
universal squeal within her borders: while
the rivulets run swine's blood, and men go
about every where with ensanguined knives
in their right hands, and wearing long white
frocks, spotted with the blood of porkers. It
was, then, in the latter part of November,
1822, that a stage filled with passengers
took its departure from the `Indian Queen'
hotel, in Philadelphia, on its way to New
York. At this period, when the land was
innocent of steamboats and railroads, the
journey between the two cites, which is now
performed in less than six hours, occupied
the best part of three days, especially when
the roads, as their condition now was,
chanced to be heavy. Among the passengers
in the stage was our friend Tom King.
`After we left the city,' says Tom, `I began
to take a view of my fellow-travellers.
None of them are worth particularizing,
though all well enough in their way, save a
cadaverous Frenchman, who sat vis à vis
with me on the middle window seat, I being
stowed in a corner on the front seat. His
extraordinary appearance instantly struck
me, filling me at once with wonder and entertainment;
for he was a bird of the sort
that I looked to have no little amusement out
of before we got to our journey's end. I
took a survey of his person and apparel.
He was about six feet in height, standing
with a long face, à la General Jackson, a
high wrinkled forehead, an eagle's beak
shaped nose, large lips and mouth, and a
pair of little, keen, snaky, black eyes, surmounted
by bushy black eyebrows, with
whiskers and moustache to match. His
complexion was very dark, and from the
general character of his physiognomy, I
knew he was a French Jew. Beneath a little
cloth cap he wore a red bandanna handkerchief,
tied smoothly on his crown. His lean,
gaunt frame was encased in a long waisted,
gray, French surtout, buttoned up to his
throat in a military style, while thick knit
gloves protected his hands from the cold.
called up to his features a sickly, yet courteous,
smile, and with the air of one who
sought sympathy and desired to be social,
addressed me in bad English—
`Sare, eet ish verra foin veddare, is
he not?'
`Yes, sir, very good weather.'
`Von leetle cold,' with a slight shrug, `ish
he not, sare?'
`Yes, sir,' I replied, quietly.
`Eh, bien! vill you obligshe me, Monsieur,
to tak' von pinshe of de snoff?' he continued,
handing to me, as a farther incentive
to social feelings, an antiquated, heavy silver
box, half filled with rappée.
`Do you go all de vays to Newe Yorrk?'
he asked, as he returned the box to his surtout
pocket.
`Yes, sir.'
`You live in dish countree, sare?'
`Yes, sir.'
`'Tish verra sangulare de vay dat you
'ave to live here. C'est une chose tres drôle.'
`In what way, sir?'
`Mais! c'est une chose si drôle!' and he
laughed such a laugh as famine herself would
have uttered—a laugh in which there was
any thing but droll.
`How droll?'
`Ah, mon dieu! In dis pays—dis countree
vous mangez rien—nothing but cochon—hog.'
`My dear sir, why, what do you mean by
our having nothing to eat here but pork?' I
asked of him.
`Ecoulez! Listen donc, Monsieur,' he
said, with indignant animation. `Quand je
quittais Paris, je me trouvais en bon point
Eh, bien! Je me trouvais myself ici—mais!
gentilmen,' interrupting himself, and looking
round upon all in the stage, as if he desired
their attention; `I vill tellee you all vat it
ish. I come to dis countree, I land in Newe
Yorrk, and I go to Philadelfie from dere.
I have some little lettare d' introduction. I
don't know no bodee in dis countree, ma foi!
Bien! I come to Philadelfie and I bring
some lettares to some of de principle peoples
dere. Eh, bien! Dey say to me, after talk
som toime, you go Mishtress Vebb, de best
boardin' house in Pheeladelife. Bien! I go
dare. Ven I left Paris, I vas verra fat—oh
verra fat indeed! Mais, de diable cochon—
dat you call de hog, almost killee me. Sare,
Ma foi! I hate de pork as I do de devil.
Now, messieurs, you see vat dat landladee
do! She give noting but de pork for six
veek. Ven I com to dis countree, in de first
place I com to Newe Yorrk. I vas den en
bon point—so fat. Now, sare, you see my
situation; de manner which I look. Now I
go back to Newe Yorrk, I am all-e-mostee
starve!' Here his voice became exceedingly
sad and touching, and he looked as if he
could weep his spirit from his eyes. While
throwing open his surtout, he knocked his
knuckles, in attestation of the truth of his
words, against his ribs and stomach till the
one rattled andibly, and the other gave back
a hollow, empty sound.
`Eh! you see dat? Youhear dat, ma foi?'
He looked round with sad triumph to see
the effect produced, and then slowly rebuttoning
the surtout, added, with a sign, as he
fastened the last button—
`Ah, jentilmen, you would not believe you
see me in Paris dis a way (filling his stomach
with wind and swelling out) and you
look at me now! Drivare!' he suddenly
called, thrusting his head out of the window,
`drivare, how far he is to Bristole?'
`Short distance, sir,' replied the respectful
Jarvey.
`Mais, tonneur de Dieu! I vas een Bristole
vonce ven I com frome Newe Yorrk. Dey
givee evra ting bat vas nice! Dey givee me
roastee bif—dey givee shickens and pomme
de terre, and all sorts of noting. Bien,
Bristole be von nice place!' And rubbing
his hands and moistening his lips, with anticipation
of the good things that would fall
to his share in Bristol, he closed his eyes
and gave himself up to (by the still smile
about his mouth) a delicious reverie.
`By-and-by the roofs and towers of Bristol
appeared, and, as if scenting `roastee bif'
afar off, the Frenchman opened his eyes,
and thrust his head out of the window.
`Vat place is dat, drivare, eh?'
`Bristol, sir.'
`Ah, ha! den I know I get someting to eat.
Now, jentilmen, I tellee you I'ave som meat
dare. Ven I vas dere I'ave got roastee bif,
roastee shickens,—ah, Bristole de good
place.'
`The coach rattles up to the principal hotel,
and ere the horses were reined up, out
briskly steps the jocund landlord. The
Frenchman, taking off his hat, instantly
thrust his red bandaged head from the window.
`Ah, Monsieur Bizanet, ah, ha! I so
glad to see you. I'ave been in dis countree
eight veek; for six veek my landladee givee
me noting but pork. Now, sare, ven I vas
here som toime dis seven veek ago, you giv
me som verra nice dinnare—roastee bif,
shicken, and every ting nice dat vas good.
Naw, Monsieur Bizanet, I am almostee
starve. Six veek my landladee give me
noting but pork—all de time, pork—and I
hate de pork as I do ze devil. Now, Monsieur
Bizanet vat you giv uz for de dinnare,
eh?'
`As he put this query, he stepped out of
the coach, and approached the landlord,
rubbing his hands together with great gout.
`Ah, Monsieur Bizanet, vot is it dat you
have goode for me, now?'
`Well, sir,' said Bizanet, with a great
pomposity of manner, like a host confident
in the quality and abundance of his larder,
`well, sir, we have some very fine tender loins.
Tendare loing—don' knaw vat he is, but
I sposhe he ish somting verra goode. Naw,
jentilmen,' he added, with an expression of
much pleasure on his hungry visage, `naw
you tak all de oder tings; I take de tendare
loing for my share. Vaitare, giv me glass
brandy vater, he cried, entering the barroom,
his stomach growing brave and dilating
with anticipation.
`After drinking his brandy vater' with apparent
satisfaction, he took his station at the
dining-room door opening towards the kitchen,
and surveyed with great complacency
each dish as it was carried in, though he
knew not the meats of which any of them
consisted. When he found, by glancing back
to the kitchen, that no more were to come,he
skipped into the dining-room and placed
himself in a seat to which the landlord
pointed him. Now be it known to the
hitherto uninformed that in `killing time,'
landlords give, literally, nothing but pork,
cooked different ways—spare-ribs, tenderloins,
pork-chops, pork-steaks, sausages,
kidneys, souse, hog's-head, hog's-head
cheese, and, in fine `noting but pork.'
`Now, Monsieur Bizanet, I am so glad
to see you! Ah, Monsieur Bizanet, vere is
de tendare loing?' and his eyes wandered
eagerly over the various modifications of
grunter which loaded the table.
`There it is, sir before you,' said the polite
landlord, with a slight bow and gesture
with his right hand.
`Ah bien bien!' replied Monsieur, delightedly;
and with the eager satisfaction of
a half-starved wretch, he seized his knife
and fork, and commenced cutting into it.
Suddenly he stops, raises the knife, and
then the fork, to his nose, smells and snuffs,
snuffs and smells, and then quickly drops
them upon his plate, and pushes back from
the table with an expression of misery and
despair. Yet it is only suspicion.
`Monsieur Bizanet! Qu'est ce que c'est
diable! tendare loing? Vat is he de tendare
loing? Tellee me vat he is made of, Monsieur
Bizanet?'
`Why, sir, that is acknowledged by epicures
to be the choicest part of the hog.'
`With a look of mingled anguish and
horror, he clasped his bony hands together,
and for a moment appeared the perfect image
of wo.
`Vaitare,' he said, at length, rising and
turning to the waiter, and speaking in the
subdued voice of patient suffering, his flexible
features twisted into almost a cry;
`Vaitare, 'ave you noting else but de pork?'
`No, sir.'
`Vell, den villee you bringee me glass
brandy vater, som onion and cracker? I
am almostee starve. I'ave live in Philadelfie
giv me noting but de pork—I almostee
starve! I come to Monsieur Bizanet, and
he giv me noting but de pork. Tonneur de
dieu!'
`Having as he dilated on his wrongs,
grown ireful, and ended thus with a deep
oath, he strode to the bar and received his
brandy vater, som onion and cracker,' and
sitting down in a corner with his handkerchief
spread across his knees, dined solitary and
alone. He was yet engaged in his frugal
repast when the stage-horn wound sharp and
loud, and with an onion in one hand, and a
fragment of cracker in the other, he took his
seat beside his fellow-passengers, and the
stage once more rolled on its way.
`Never mind, sir,' says Tom King, putting
on a face full of sympathy, `never
mind it; wait till we get to Trenton.'
`Trantong! Ai dat ish de place vere
de prison is! I see him ven I com on from
Newe Yorrk. Mais, dis done, vere we is
now?'
`Ten miles off.'
`Ah, Trantong! I stop dere at Monsieur
Bispham, vere I get someting verra good to
eat, I tell you. Now jentilmen, ven ve get
dere you may take de tendare loing, and I
take som oder ting goode.'
`By-and-by, the stage begins to descend
a hill towards a covered bridge stretched
across the Delaware, and on the opposite
shore appears in full view a large town.
'Drivare,' cried Monsieur, thrusting his
head out of the stage window, `drivare tellee
me vat place he is, eh?'
`Trenton, sir.'
`Trantong! Bien, bien! Now I sall get
someting nice to eat. Ha, ha!' and rubbing
his palms with delightful anticipation,
he eagerly watched for the hotel from the window,
as the stage rolled through the streets.
`Ah, vat is he dat maison, Monsieur
Tomkin? (for Tom had given his fellow
traveller his name.) I tink I know him.'
`'Tis Mr. Bispham's.'
`Ah, Monsieur Bispham! Now sall I
get some ting nice to eat!'
`As the stage drove up to the door, the
travellers were welcomed by the courteous
host.
`Ah, ha, Monsieur Bispham!' cried the
Frenchman, as the landlord stepped up to
open the door of the coach. `Je suis charmé
de vous voir! I'ave com from Philadelfie;
my landladie giv me nossin but pork. Naw
sare ven I vas here six veek ago, I got von
verra nice dinnare—ah mon dieu it vas too
moche goode! You givee me roastee bif,
roastee shicken, mouton—avery ting dat vas
nice. Naw, Monsieur Bispham,' he continued,
smiling most insinuatingly in the landlord's
face, and rubbing his palms together,
vat 'ave you got for my dinnare? I am almostee
starve. Six veek my landladie giv
me noting but de pork; I com to Bristole,
and Monsieur Bizanet giv me noting but de
pork; and I hate de pork as I do ze devil.
Naw, Monsieur Bispham, vat you giv uz for
de dinnare?'
`There was a merry twinkle in Tom
King's eye as he caught that of mine host
which told volumes, and which the other
was not slow in taking.
I can give you som very fine spare-ribs,'
replied Mr. Bispham, in his blandest manner.
`Spare-reeb! vat he is? Spare-reeb! I
sposhe he verra goode! he muttered half to
himself, as he descended to the pavement.
`Now, jentilmen, you take de tendare-loing
for your share, I will tak de spare-reeb for
minself!' and with a step made light with
delight he skipped into the bar-room.
`Vaitare!'
`Sir.'
`Glass brandy vater; it make de appettie
sharp for de spare-reeb! Ah Monsieur Bispham,
you von verra nice jentilman. Sparereeb!
eh, I vill now 'ave someting goode to
eat.'
`With impatient gratification he watched
the entrance of each dish, and then, with his
fellow-passengers, seated himself at the table
before a dish which mine host, with a
peculiar smile lurking in the corner of his
eye himself placed there.
`Eh, Monsieur Bispham, vere is de
spare-reeb?'
`The dish immediately before your plate.'
`C'est bien! Je le vois! Ah, Monsieur
Bispham, I likee you vera moshe for von
jentilman's. I vill cot him maintenant.
`With these words of gratitude and hope
on his lips Monsieur buried his knife into the
crisp meat before him, and the pleasant
odor followed the knife as it was drawn
forth, and ascended to his nose. With dilated
eyes and nostrils, he hung suspended
over the unsavory dish an instant, his knife
and fork elevated in either hand, looking as
if the truth were too great for belief. Twice
—thrice he bent his head towards it, ad
each time snuffed and snorted not unlike the
uclean animal of his holy abhorence. Conviction
flashes upon him. Pale as a corpse,
he drops the knife and fork and pushes back
from the table.
`Monsieur Bispham!' in tones of pitiful
distress, while his pathetic glances from the
spare-rib to mine host, and from mine host
to the spare-rib, nearly brought tears (from
hardly suppressed laughter) into Tom King's
eyes, and filled every bosom around with
manly sympathy. `Monsieur Bispham!'
`Sir.'
`Ave you no oter ting but dis hog?'
`No, sir; but I will tell you what I can
do for you,' said the feeling landlord; I can
give you'—
`Notin more, sare; I vant notin! Vaitare!'
`Yes, sir.'
`Give me glass brandy vater, cracker, and
som onion,' and with a sigh that seemed to
come from a half-empty wind-bag, he proceeded
to dine off the grateful comestibles
he had named.
`Ah, never mind it, sir; don't be alarmed,'
said Tom, after he had got into the stage,
putting on a face of inimitable commiseration;
`you'll make it all up when we get to
Princeton.'
`Prancetong! dat is de place vere de collegshe
ish. I see him dere. Ah, I stop at
Monsieur Joline. I get someting verra
goode to eat, Monsieur Joline; he givee me
roastee chickens, roastee sheep, nice fricasee
de poulet, de pudding—de avery thing nice.
Ah, Monsiur Tomkin, I sall get some ting
verra goode for to eat now, parbleu!'
When the coach came in sight of Princeton,
out popped the Frenchman's head.
`Drivare, vat place he is, eh?'
`Princeton, sir.'
`Prancetong, ah! Naw, jentilmen, ve sall
ave someting goode to eat!' and his haggard
features became luminous at the thought.
`Ah, ah, Monsieur Joline,' he cried, as
the coach drew up to the door of the hotel;
`I am so rejoice to see you! Sare, I 'ave
com from Philadelfie; my landladie giv me
noting but de pork—six veek she giv me
noting but de pork. I almostee starve. I
com to Bristole—Monsieur Bizanet giv me
noting but de pork. I com to Trangtong—
Monsieur Bispham giv me noting but de
pork. Naw, Monsieur Joline, my goode
frien',' he added, stepping from the coach,
and pathetically putting his hand on mine
host's shoulder, while his voice was dropped
to a low insinuating tone, `will you givee me
someting good for my dinnare?'
`Oh yes, sir,' replied the landlord, who
had caught a twinkle of Tom King's eye;
`oh, yes; I can give you a tender-loin.'
`Bah!' with supreme disgust.
`I can give you a spare-rib, sir.'
`Bah, bah! 'ave you noting else?'
`Ah, yes; I will let you have a very fine
chop.'
`Schop—schop! I don' knaw vat he is.
Monsieur Tomkin, vill you telle me vat he is
—de schop?'
`It is my favorite dish, sir,' said Tom,
licking his chops; `we are lucky in getting
at Mr. Joline's to dine.'
`Ah-h-h! Monsieur Tomkin,' he cried,
shaking Tom by both hands, `I vill den 'ave
somting goode to eat. I vill tak som de
schop, Monsieur Joline. Jentilmen, you
hear me! you may tak de tendare-loing and
de spare-rib for yourself—I vill 'ave de schop
for my share. Ah, jentilmen, did I not tellee
you I get someting goode to eat Monsieur
With moist lips and longing eyes, did
Monsieur survey the serving-up and entreé
of the various dishes, (if there can be variety
where all the dishes are of like meat).
At length, came out `mine host,' and announced
dinner. The famished Frenchman
glided in strait to one of the chairs, and was
about to take it—
`Pah! spare-reeb!'
He darted to another—
`Pah! tendare-loing!'
`Here, sir,' said Tom, pointing to the
chair next to his, `you will find this seat
pleasanter—besides, here are chops placed
for you.'
Grace! bien, bien! You are tres polite,
Monsieur Tomkin,' and sliding into the chair,
he seized his knife and fork, and commenced
upon the delicate dish prepared for him. No
sooner, however, did the porkerous odor
that freely rose with the steam on being disturbed
by the knife assail his nostrils, and
convince him that swine's flesh was set before
him, than he sprung from the table as if
the porker had come bodily to life in the dish.
`Oh, mon dieu—mon dieu! Monsieur Joline!
Comment l'appelait-on? Qu'est ce que
c'est diable de schop? Vat you call de schop,
Monsieur?'
`Why, my dear sir,' replied mine host,
with gravity, `that, sir, is acknowledged on
all hands to be one of the most delicious parts
of the hog.'
`Hog—cochon? Tonneur de dieu!' and
with a backward leap, Monsieur placed ten
feet between himself and the object of his
abhorrence. `Monsieur Joline!' and he
approached the landlord with a tale of wo
written in his sad visage, `ah! Monsieur
Joline, I 'ave com from France. I 'ave
been in Philadelfie six veek; my landladie
givee me noting but de pork—six veek she
giv me noting but de pork. I com Bristole
—Monsieur Bizanet givee me noting but de
pork. I com Trantong—Monsieur Bispham
givee me noting but de pork. I com Prancetong,
and you givee me noting but de pork.
I almostee starve.' Then placing his open
palms over his collapsed stomach, and almost
weeping his spirit from his eyes, he called in
a tristful tone—
`Vaitare, givee me glass brandy vater,
som onion and cracker.'
`Never mind, my dear friend,' said Tom
King, with well-feigned sympathy, after they
were once more in the coach; `never mind;
wait till you get to New Brunswick, and
Mr. De Graw will give you a good dinner.'
`Ah, ha! I knaw Monsieur De Graw, he
said, brightening up, `I knaw him verra
well. He giv me von verra nice dinnare—
roastee bif, bif-stick, schicken, som pie, som
nice pudding. Ah, jolie ville Newe Bronsvicke!
I get someting goode to eat, Monsieur
De Graw. Drivare, how far he is
Newe Bronsvicke?'
`Soon be there, sir.'
`Eh, bien! now you sall see, jentilmen—
you sall see, Monsieur Tomkin, vat good
dinnare I vill eat at Monsieur De Graw! Oh,
oh! I knaw verra well Monsieur De Graw.
You sall see naw vat you sall see.'
The symmetrical snow-white spire of the
Episcopal church, and the old Spanish looking
tower of the Dutch, at length rose above
the distant fields, and caught the eye of the
vigilant Frenchman.
`Drivare, vat place he is coming, eh?'
`New Brunswick, sir.'
`Newe Brunsvicke! Bien! Now you sall
see, Monsieur Tomkin—now you sall see,
jentilmen, vot I vill 'ave to eat. Ah, ha! I
sall 'ave de nice dinnare—de roastee bif, de
bif-stik, de shicken, de nice pudding, some
pie—avery ting!' and in renewed pleasurable
anticipation, Monsieur's hungry countenance
was wreathed with ghastly smiles, and he
seemed several times as if, in his joy, he was
about to hug his friend, “Monsieur Tomkin,”
to his shrunken breast.
The stage rolled rapidly down Albany
street, and drew up at a spacious hotel, at
the entrance to the antiquated bridge that
spans the beautiful Raritan. Out stepped
Mr. De Graw, smiling welcome to the goodly
company of travellers.
`Ah, ha, Monsieur De Graw,' cried the
Frenchman, taking off his cap, and thrusting
his red bandanna pate out of the coach window;
`ah, ha, Monsieur De Graw, how you
do? I am so enjoyed to see you. I am com
from Philadelfie—my landladie for six veek
givee me noting but de pork. I almostee
starve. I com Bristole—Monsieur Bizanet
givee me noting but de pork. I com Trantong—Monsieur
Bispham givee me noting but
de pork. I com Prancetong—Monsieur Joline
givee me noting but de pork, and I hate
de pork, sare, as I do ze devil. Ah, bon
dieu! I almostee starve. Naw, Monsieur
De Graw,' he added, in an insinuating tone,
and with a winning smile that would have
melted the heart of Robespierre, `now, Monsieur
De Graw, vat 'ave you got good for
my dinnare?'
`I have some very fine steaks.'
`Stik! stick! ah, jentilmen,' he cried, delightedly,
`I tol you I get someting goode to
eat Monsieur De Graw. Stik! I remembare
him—he verra nice! Jentilmen, you may
'ave de tendare-loing, de spare-reeb, de
schop, and all de oder ting—I vill tak de
stik for my share. Vaitare,' he cried, with
additional animation, `bring me glass brandy
vater!'
The `brandy vater' was brought and
drank with great gusto, and then with a
gleam of high satisfaction on his features,
he took his stand by the dining-room door,
and watched the entrance of each savory
dish with curiosity.
`Monsieur De Graw!'
`Sir.'
`Vere is my stik?'
`It is coming, sir—here it is.'
`Ah, bien! I see him,' and following the
last platter in, he seated himself before it.
A cloud of steam rose from the insertion of
the ready knife, and the accursed flavor of
pork ascended to his olfactory organs.
`Qu'est ce que c'est diable de stik, Monsieur
De Graw? Mais dis donc! Vat you call
dis stik?'
`Why that, sir, is acknowledged to be
one of the most delicious parts of the hog.'
Down dropped the poor French Jew's knife
and fork, and rising up, he thus addressed
himself to `mine host,' at first more in sorrow
than in anger, though with the recital
of his griefs his indignation rose—
`I am com from Paris. I go Philadelfie
—six veek my landladie givee me noting but
de pork. I com Bristole—Monsieur Bizanet
givee me noting but de pork. I com Trantong—Monsieur
Bispham givee me noting
but de pork. I com Prancetong—Monsieur
Joline givee me noting but de pork. I almostee
starve, sare, and I nevare been so
maltreat in my life. Ven I was in my own
countree, nobody nevere serve me so, and,
sare, I tink it is blackguard manner, and no
jentilman. Vaitaire,' he cried, in a subdued
tone of sorrow, not unmingled with offended
dignity, turning from the landlord with supreme
contempt, having expended upon him
his short-lived wrath, his stomach, doubtless,
being all too weak to hold much anger; vaitaire,
you givee som cracker, vater, and som
onion, if you pleas.'
`Ah, sir,' said Tom King, as they entered
the coach, squeezing the Frenchman's attenuated
fingers in his consoling grasp; `ah,
my dear sir, let it not disturb you, lest you
impair your appetite; for I assure you, sir,
that you will find at Newark every thing to
gratify it.'
`Newarke! Bien! I remember him,' he
cried, catching at the brittle straw of hope
Tom had kindly thrown out. `I 'ave stop in
Newarke one time. I nevare got suche good
dinnare as I got dere!'
`They give very good dinners at Gifford's,'
said Tom.
`Gifforde! ah, I knaw him; he is de landlord.
Ah, I knaw Monsieur Gifford verra
well. He givee me roastee torkey, roastee
shickens, voodcock, bif-stick, some pie—ah,
mon dieu! every ting dat was nice he gave
me! Ah, you sall see, Monsieur Tomkin,
vat you sall see, ven I com Newarke.'
By-and-by, the spires of Newark rose in
sight, above the green meadows and pleasant
woods that surround it, and caught the
quick eye of the Frenchman.
`Drivare, vat he is?' he eagerly asked.
`Newark, sir.'
`Newarke! Eh, bien, bien! now, jentilmen,
you sall see!' and rejoicing in the good
things in store for him, he sung, whistled,
and said something pleasant to each one of
his fellow travellers. The coach at length
stopped at the door of `Gifford's,' and out
came the portly landlord himself, to do honor
to his newly-arrived guests.
`Dat ish Monsieur Gifford, ish it not, Monsieur
Tomkin?' he asked, as he caught sight
of him from a distance.
`That is he, and he will give you a capital
dinner,' replied Tom.
`Ah, Monsieur Gifford, how you do? It
make me verra rejoice to see you. You look
verra fat, Monsieur Gifford. Now, Monsieur
Gifford, I 'ave com from Paris; I com to
Newe Yorrk, den I go Philadelfie. I stop
wid you ven I go, six veek ago. Oh, de nice
dinnare you giv me—roastee torkey, roastee
shicken, voodcock, roastee bif, bif-stik, som
pie—avery ting dat vas goode you give me.
Now, I go Philadelfie—my landladie givee
me, for six veek, noting but de pork. I almostee
starve. I com Bristole—Monsieur
Bizanet givee me noting but de pork. I com
Trantong—Monsieur Bispham givee me noting
but de pork. I com Prancetong—Monsieur
Joline givee me noting but de pork. I
com New Bronsvicke—Monsieur De Graw
givee me noting but de pork. I almostee
starve. Naw, Monsieur Gifforde,' he added,
with a pathetic look, working his features
into a coaxing smile, `naw, Monsieur Gifford,
vat vill you givee me goode for my dinner?'
In the meanwhile, sundry signs and words
had been interchanged between Tom King
and `mine host,' and Mr. Gifford answered
with ready civility.
`Why, in the first place, sir, we have some
very excellent tender-loin.'
`Bah!'
`We have a very fine spare-rib, sir.'
`Bah!'
`We have some capital chops.'
`Bah!'
`Well, sir, perhaps you would like a nice
steak.'
`Bah, bah! noting but de hog. Monsieur
Gifford! sare! ven I vas here last, you givee
me avery ting—de roastee bif, de voodcock,
de bif-stik, some pie. Now, Monsieur Gifford,
'ave you not got noting good?'
`Ah, sir, there is one thing I had forgotten—we
are going to have a fine roaster.'
`R-roastare! Ah, jentilmen, you hear!
r-r-roastare!' he cried, sounding the r like a
watchman's rattle; and, turning to the company,
he shook each one by the hand, while
his hollow visage was illuminated with the reflection
of his inward joy. `I tol' you, jentilman,
we get something to eat here! Now,
you tak de hog vid twentie name, I vill 'ave
de roastare for my dinner.'
Feeling now sure of a dinner, he became
magnanimous, and calling for `brandy vater'
in a more confident tone than he had hitherto
used, he turned blandly to his fellow travellers—
`Monsieur Tomkin—jentilmen—you tak
glass brandy vater?'
After drinking, he began to rub and expand
his abdomen, and to swell out like the
frog in the fable, while he walked impatiently
to and fro before the dining-room door.
`Vill dat bell never ring for my dinnare?'
he muttered every few turns. Not a dish
that went in, escaped his scrutiny. As each
passed him, he would recognise and name it
with disgust.
`Bah! porkee-stik!'
`Bah! spare-reeb!'
`Bah! tendare-loing!'
`Bah, bah! schop!'
`Ah, ha, jentilmen, you bettare go get
your dinnare,' he cried jocosely, as this array
of swine's flesh passed him towards the
table, `I vait for my roastare!' and folding
his arms, he leaned against the side of the
door, and fixed his eyes musingly on the door
of the kitchen. In a few moments, Mr. Gifford
made his appearance, hat in hand.
`Dinner is ready, gentlemen.'
The Frenchman did not hear; his waiting
eyes were bent on the door leading kitchen-ward,
a soliloquy.
`Roastare—roastare! Qu'est ce que c'est
roastare? I shpose he roastee bif, or som
soche ting! roastee shicken, I shpose! He
must be something verra nice! Roastee
mouton, perhaps!'
`Dinner is served, sir,' said Mr. Gifford.
`Mair pardi! Monsieur Gifford, vere is
my roastare, sare?'
`It is coming now, sir.'
The Frenchman looked, and beheld borne
past him, on a broad platter, a roast pig, with
a potatoe in his jaws.
`Sare, vere is my roastare?'
`This is it.'
`Is dat de roastare, sare?'
`Yes, sir; and one of the most delicious
things in the world.'
`Sare—Monsieur Gifford! I'ave com from
Paris. My landladie, Philadelfie, six veek
givee me noting but de pork. I almostee
starve. I com Bristole—Monsieur Bizanet
givee me noting but de pork. I almostee
starve. I com Trantong—Monsieur Bispham
give me noting but de pork. I com
Prancetong—Monsieur Johne give me noting
but de pork. I almostee starve. I com Newe
Bronsvicke—Monsieur De Graw givee me
noting but de pork. I com Newarke, sare,
and you givee me noting but de pork—nossing
but de hog. I al-e mostee starve. I
nevare been so maltreat in my life before.
Ven I vas in my own countree, nobody not
nevare serve me so. Sare, I tink it is blackguard
manner, and no jentilman. You 'ave
usee me loike von scoundrele rascaller.
You are not content wis giving me de differen
kind of de pork—de spare-reeb, de tendare-loing,
de schop, de stik, and noting but
de pork—but now you bringee me de CHILDE
OF DE HOG!'
| The spectre steamer, and other tales | |