 | RIPTON RUMSEY;
A TALE OF THE WATERS. Charcoal sketches, or, Scenes in a metropolis |  |
15. RIPTON RUMSEY;
A TALE OF THE WATERS.
They who are at all mindful of atmospheric phenomena
must remember a storm, remarkable for its violence,
which occurred not long since. It was a storm by
night, and of those abroad at the time, every one averse
to the shower bath, and having a feline dislike to wet
feet, will bear it in mind, at least until the impression is
washed out by the floods of a greater tempest. In the
evening, the rain, as if exercising itself for more important
feats, fell gently and at intervals; but as the night
advanced, the wind came forth intent upon a frolic. Commencing
with playful gambols, it amused itself at first
with blowing out the old women's candles at the apple
stands. Then growing bolder, it extinguished a few
corporation lamps, and, like a mischievous boy, made
free to snatch the hats of the unguarded, and to whisk
them through mud and kennel. At length becoming wild
by indulgence, it made a terrible turmoil through the
streets, without the slightest regard to municipal regulations
to the contrary. It went whooping at the top of its
voice round the corners, whistled shrilly through the
key-holes, and howled in dismal tones about the chimney
tops. Here, it startled the negligent housewife from her
slumbers by slamming the unbolted shutter till it roared
until its ancient hinges creaked for mercy; while at
intervals, the heavy tumble of scantling told that when
Auster chooses to kick up a breeze, he is very nearly as
good at a practical joke as Boreas, or any other frolicsome
member of the æolian family. The clouds too
threw open their sluices, and the water joining in the
saturnalia, tried a variety of ways to amuse itself, and its
capers were as numerous as those of the gale. It beat
the tattoo upon the pavement with such sportive fury,
that it was difficult to decide whether it did not rain upward
as violently as it did downward. Anon the breeze
came sweeping along in a horizontal shower, disdaining
alike the laws of gravity, and the perpendicular, but more
hackneyed method of accomplishing its object. In short,
whether reference be had to wind or to water, it may be
noted in the journals of those curious in regard to weather,
as a night equally calculated to puzzle an umbrella,
and to render “every man his own washerwoman.”
Selecting a single incident from the many, which it is
natural to suppose might have been found by the aid of a
diving bell on such a night, it becomes necessary to fish
up Ripton Rumsey, who happened to be abroad on that
occasion, as he is upon all occasions when left to consult
his own wishes. Where Ripton had been in the early
part of the evening, it would not have been easy either
for himself or any one else to tell. It is, therefore, fair
to infer that, distributing his attentions, he had been as
usual “about in spots.” The fact is he has a hobby,
which, like many hobbies, is apt to throw its rider. Although
temperately disposed, such is the inquiring nature
of his philosophic spirit, that, with a view perhaps to
the ultimate benefit of the human race, he is continually
experimenting as to the effects of alcoholic stimulants
this occasion having “imbibed too much of the enemy”
neat as imported, he had walked forth to qualify it by a
stroll in the rain. This, however, is irrelevant, where
he was, is the point at issue.
The rain came down heavier than ever. A solitary
watchman, more amphibious than his race in general,
was seen wending his way through the puddles, thinking,
if he thought at all, of the discomforts of those whom
Noah left behind, and of that happy provision of nature
which renders a wet back fatal to none but young goslings.
Dodging between the drops was out of the question;
so he strode manfully onward, until he stumbled
over something which lay like a lion, or a bundle of wet
clothing, in his path.
“Why, hello!—what do you call this when it's biled,
and the skin's tuck off?” said he, recovering himself,
and giving the obstruction a thrust with his foot. “What's
this without ing'ens?” continued he, in that metaphorical
manner peculiar to men of his profession, when they ask
for naked truths and uncooked facts.
It was Ripton Rumsey—in that independent condition
which places men beyond the control of circumstances,
enabling them to sleep quietly either on the pavement
or on the track of a well travelled railroad, and to repose
in despite of rain, thunder, a gnawing conscience, or the
fear of a locomotive. It was Ripton Rumsey, saved from
being floated away solely by the saturated condition of
both his internal and external man.
“It's a man,” remarked the investigator, holding to a
tree with his right hand, as he curiously, yet cautiously
pawed Ripton with his left foot. “It's a man who's
turned in outside of the door, and is taking a snooze on
the cold water principle. Well, I say, neighbour, jist in
kick as an evidence of his amicable feeling—“if you
don't get up, you'll ketch a nagee or the collar-and-fix-you.
Up with you, Jacky Dadle.”
Ripton's condition, as before hinted, was beyond the
ordinary impulses to human action; and he, therefore,
endured several severe digs with the foot aforesaid, without
uttering more than a deep-toned grunt; but at last
the sharp corner of the boot coming in contact with his
ribs, he suddenly turned over in the graceful attitude of a
frog, and struck out vigorously. Like Giovanni's faithful
squire, he proved himself an adept at swimming on
land. He “handled” his arms and legs with such dexterity,
that before his progress could be arrested, he was
on the curbstone. The next instant heard him plunge
into the swollen and roaring kennel, and with his head
sticking above the water, he buffeted the waves with a
heart of controversy.
“The boat's blowed up, and them that ain't biled are
all overboard!” spluttered the swimmer, as he dashed
the waters about, and seemed almost strangled with the
quantities which entered the hole in his head entitled a
mouth, which was sadly unacquainted with undistilled
fluids—“Strike out, or you're gone chickens! them as
can't swim must tread water, and them as can't tread
water must go to Davy Jones! Let go my leg! Every
man for himself! Phre-e-e! bro-o-o! Who's got some
splatterdocks?”
The watch looked on in silent admiration; but finding
that the aquatic gentleman did not make much headway,
and that a probability existed of his going out of the
world in soundings and by water, a way evidently not in
conformity to his desires, the benevolent guardian of the
night thought proper to interpose; and bending himself
Rumsey on the curbstone.
“Ha!” said Ripton, after gasping a few minutes, and
wringing the water from his face and hair—“you've
saved me, and you'll be put in the newspapers for it by
way of solid reward. Jist in time—I'd been down twyst,
and if I'd gone agin, Ripton Rumsey would a stayed there
—once more and the last and the nearest gits it. Only
think—my eye! how the shads and the catties would a
chawed me up! Getting drownded ain't no fun, and
after you're drownded it's wus. My sufferings what I had
and my sufferings what I like to had is enough to make
a feller cry, only I ain't got no hankercher, and my
sleeve's so wet it won't wipe good.”
“Yes, young 'un,” said the Charley, “s'posing the
fishes had been betting on elections, they'd have invited
the other fishes to eat you for oyster suppers,—so much
majority for sturgeon-nose, or a Ripton Rumsey supper
for the company—why not? If we ketch the fishes, we eat
them; and if they ketch us, they eat us,—bite all round.”
But the storm again began to howl, and as Ripton
evidently did not understand the rationale of the argument,
the watchman lost his poetic sympathy for the Jonah of
the gutters. Even had he heard the fishes calling for “Ripton
Rumseys fried,” “Ripton Rumseys stewed,” or
“Ripton Rumseys on a chafing dish,” he would have felt
indifferent about the matter, and if asked how he would
take him, would undoubtedly have said, “Ripton Rumsey
on a wheelbarrow.”
“You must go to the watch-house.”
“What fur must I! Fetch along the Humane Society's
apparatus for the recovery of drownded indiwidooals
—them's what I want—I'm water logged. Bring us one
of the largest kind of smallers—a tumbler full of brandy
being diddled out of the sweets of my interesting sitivation—I
want the goodies—wrap me in a hot blanket and
lay me by the fire—put hot bricks to my feet, fill me up
with hot toddy, and then go away. That's the scientific
touch, and it's the only way I'm to be brung to, because
when I'm drownded I'm a hard case.”
The Charley promised all, if Ripton would accompany
him. The soft delusion was believed, and the “hard
case” was lodged in the receptacle for such as he, where,
before he discovered the deception, he fell into a profound
slumber, which lasted till morning. The examination
was as follows:—
“Where do you live?”
“I'm no ways petickelar—jist where it's cheapest and
most convenient. The cheapest kind of living, according
to my notion, is when it's pretty good and don't cost
nothing. In winter, the Alms House is not slow, and
if you'll give us a call, you'll find me there when the
snow's on the ground. But when natur' smiles and the
grass is green, I'm out like a hoppergrass. The fact is,
my constitution isn't none of the strongest; hard work
hurts my system; so I go about doing little jobs for a fip
or a levy, so's to get my catnip tea and bitters regular—
any thing for a decent living, if it doesn't tire a feller.
But hang the city—rural felicity and no Charleys is the
thing, after all—pumpkins, cabbages, and apple whiskey
is always good for a weakly constitution and a man of an
elewated turn of mind.”
“Well, I'll send you to Moyamensing prison—quite
rural.”
The sound of that awful word struck terror to the very
marrow of Ripton. Like the rest of his class, while
bearing his soul in his stomach, he carries his heart at
from every part of his frame, until the beacon blazed with
a lurid glare, and the bystanders apprehended nasal apoplexy.
The rudder of his countenance grew to such a
size that there was no mistaking the leading feature of
the case. To see before him, Ripton was compelled to
squint direfully, and as the beggar in Gil Blas did his carbine,
he found himself under the necessity of resting his
tremendous proboscis on the clerk's desk, while cocking
his eye at his honour.
“Miamensin!” stammered Ripton—“Ouch, ouch!
now don't! that's a clever feller. Arch street was all
well enough—plenty of company and conversation to
improve a chap. But Miamensin—scandaylus! Why
they clap you right into a bag as soon as you get inside
the door, jist as if they'd bought you by the bushel, and
then, by way of finishing your education, they lug you
along and empty you into a room where you never see
nothing nor nobody. It's jist wasting a man—I'm be
bagged if I go to Miamensin!—I'd rather be in the Menagerry,
and be stirred up with a long pole twenty times
a day, so as to cause me for to growl to amuse the company.
I ain't potatoes to be put into a bag—blow the
bag!”
“There's no help for it, Ripton; you are a vagrant,
and must be taken care of.”
“That's what I like; but bagging a man is no sort of
a way of taking care of him, unless he's a dead robin or
a shot tom-tit. As for being a vagrom, it's all owing to
my weakly constitution, and because I can't have my
bitters and catnip tea regular. But if it's the law, here's
at you. Being a judge, or a mayor, or any thing of that
sort's easy done without catnip tea; it don't hurt your
hands, or strain your back; but jist try a spell at smashing
being put in a bag.
“Never mind,” said Ripton, as he was conducted
from the office, “every thing goes round in this world.
Perhaps I'll be stuck up some day on a bench to ladle
out law to the loafers. Who knows? Then let me
have a holt of some of the chaps that made Miamensin.
I'd ladle out the law to 'em so hot, they'd not send their
plates for more soup in a hurry. I'd have a whole bucketful
of catnip tea alongside, and the way they'd ketch
thirty days, and thirty days a top of that, would make
'em grin like chessy cats. First I'd bag all the Charleys,
and then I'd bag all the mayors, and sew 'em up.”
| RIPTON RUMSEY;
A TALE OF THE WATERS. Charcoal sketches, or, Scenes in a metropolis | |