 | A WHOLE-SOULED FELLOW;
OR,
THE DECLINE AND FALL OF TIPPLETON TIPPS. Charcoal sketches, or, Scenes in a metropolis |  |
16. A WHOLE-SOULED FELLOW;
OR,
THE DECLINE AND FALL OF TIPPLETON TIPPS.
As the reader may have observed in his journey
through life, the shades and varieties of human character
are infinite. Although the temperaments, like the cardinal
numbers, are not multitudinous, yet in the course
of events they have been so combined with each other,
and are so modified by circumstance, that ingenuity
itself cannot institute subdivisions to classify mankind
with correctness. Whatever it may have been when our
ancestors existed in the nomadic state and herded in
tribes, it is difficult now to find the temperaments in their
pristine purity; and in consequence, it is but vague description
to speak of others as sanguineous, nervous, or
saturnine. Something more definite is required to convey
to the mind a general impression of the individual,
and to give an idea of his mode of thought, his habitual
conduct, and his principles of action. Luckily, however,
for the cause of science and for the graphic force of language,
there is a universal aptitude to paint with words,
and to condense a catalogue of qualities in a phrase,
which has been carried to such perfection, that in acquiring
the distinctive moral features of our fellow mortals, it is
by no means necessary to devote hours to query and
response. An intelligent witness can convey to us the
essence of a character in a breath; a flourish of the
tongue will sketch a portrait, and place it, varnished and
framed, in our mental picture gallery. The colours will,
it is true, be coarsely dashed in, but the strength of the
resemblance abundantly compensates for deficiency of
finish. If, for instance, we are briefly told that Mr. Plinlimmon
is a “cake,” the word may be derided as a cant
appellation; the ultra-fastidious may turn up their noses
at it as a slang phrase; but volumes could not render our
knowledge of the man more perfect. We have him as
it were, upon a salver, weak, unwholesome, and insipid
—suited to the fancy, perhaps, of the very youthful, but
by no means qualified for association with the bold, the
mature, and the enterprising. When we hear that a
personage is classed by competent judges among the
“spoons,” we do not of course expect to find him
shining in the buffet; but we are satisfied that in action
he must figure merely as an instrument. There are
likewise, in this method of painting to the ear, the nicest
shades of difference, often represented and made intelligible
solely by the change of a letter,—“soft” being
the positive announcement of a good easy soul, and
“saft” intimating that his disposition takes rank in the
superlative degree of mollification. When danger's to
be confronted, who would rashly rely upon a “skulk?”
or, under any circumstances, ask worldly advice of those
verdant worthies known among their cotemporaries as
decidedly “green?”
Such words are the mystic cabala; they are the key
to individuality, throwing open a panoramic view of the
emergency.
Therefore, when we speak of Tippleton Tipps as a
“whole-souled fellow,” the acute reader will find an
inkling of biography in the term—he will understand
that Tippleton is likely to be portrayed as “no one's
enemy but his own”—and from that will have a
glimpse of disastrous chances, of hairbreadth 'scapes,
and of immediate or prospective wreck. According to
the popular acceptation of the phrase, a “whole-soul” is
a boiler without a safety valve, doomed sooner or later to
explode with fury, if wisdom with her gimblet fail in
making an aperture: the puncture, however, being effected,
the soul is a whole-soul no longer. It must
therefore be confessed that Tippleton Tipps has not
thus been bored by wisdom. He has a prompt alacrity
at a “blow-out” and has been skyed in a “blow-up,”
two varieties of the blow which frequently follow each
other so closely as to be taken for cause and effect.
Tippleton Tipps, as his soubriquet imports, is one of
those who rarely become old, and are so long engaged in
sowing their wild oats as to run to seed themselves, never
fructifying in the way of experience, unless it be, like
Bardolph, in the region of the nose. Before the condensing
process was applied to language, he would probably
have been called a dissipated, unsteady rogue, who
walked in the broad path which furnishes sea-room for
eccentricities of conduct; but in these labour-saving
times, he rejoices in the milder, but quite as descriptive
title of a whole-souled fellow, the highest degree attainable
in the college of insouciance and jollity. It is, however,
no honorary distinction, to be gained without toil
or danger. The road is steep and thorny, and though
in striving to reach the topmost height, there is no necessity
yet the midnight lamp, and many of the lamps which
beam between the noon of night and morning, are often
incidentally smashed in the process. Aspirants for other
academic glories become pale with application and protracted
vigils, but the whole-souled fellow will outwatch
the lynx, and, if his cheek be blanched, the colour is
made up in another portion of his visage. He is apt to
be as “deeply red” as any one, though the locality of
his acquirements may be different.
The strict derivation of the title acquired by Tippleton—the
W. S. F. by which he is distinguished—is not
easily to be traced. There is, however, a vulgar belief
that the philosopher who devotes himself to profound
investigations, whether theoretical, like those of the
schools, or experimental, like those of the Tippses, is not
altogether free from flaw in the region of the occiput,
and hence, as the schoolman has the sutures of his cranium
caulked with latinized degrees, and as one should
always have something whole about him, fancy and
charity combined give the fast-livers credit for a “whole-soul.”
Now, Tippleton Tipps always lived uncommonly fast.
He is in fact remarkable for free action and swift travel,
existing regularly at the rate of sixteen miles an hour
under a trot, and can go twenty in a gallop. He sleeps
fast, talks fast, eats fast, drinks fast, and, that he may get
on the faster, seldom thinks at all. It is an axiom of his
that thinking, if not “an idle waste of thought,” is a
very leaden business—one must stop to think, which
wastes time and checks enterprise. He reprobates it as
much as he does poring over books, an employment
which he regards as only calculated to give a man a
“crick in the neck,” and to spoil the originality of his
is reason with others, is instinct in him.
When Tippleton was quite a little boy, his moral idiosyncrasy
manifested itself in a very decisive way. His
generosity was remarkable; he was never known to pause
in giving away the playthings belonging to his brothers
and sisters; and his disinterestedness was such that he
never hesitated an instant in breaking or losing his own,
if sure of repairing the deficit by foraging upon others.
No sordid impulse prevented a lavish expenditure of his
pennies, and as soon as they were gone he “financiered”
with the same liberality by borrowing from his little
friends, never offending their delicacy by an offer to
return the loan,—a blunder into which meaner spirits
sometimes fall. When that statesmanlike expedient
would no longer answer, he tried the great commercial
system upon a small scale, by hypothecating with the
apple and pie woman the pennies he was to receive, thus
stealing a march upon time by living in advance. There
being many apple women and likewise many pie women,
he extended his business in this whole-souled sort
of a way, and skilfully avoiding the sinking of more
pennies than actually necessary to sustain his credit, he
prospered for some time in the eating line. But as every
thing good is sure to have an end, the apple and pie system
being at last blown out tolerably large, Tippleton
exploded with no assets. By way of a moral lesson, his
father boxed his ears and refused to settle with his creditors,—whereupon
Tippleton concluded that the sin lay altogether
in being found out,—while his mother kissed
him, gave him a half dollar, and protested that he had the
spirit of a prince and ought not to be snubbed. As the
spirit of a prince is a fine thing, it was cherished accordingly,
and Tippleton spent his cash and laughed at the
pie women.
The home department of his training being thus
carefully attended to, Tippleton went to a variety of
“lyceums,” “academies,” and “institutes,” and mosaicked
his education by remaining long enough to learn the
branches of mischief indigenous to each, when, either
because he had outstripped his teacher, or because his
whole-soul had become too large, he was invariably
requested to resign, receiving on all of these interesting
occasions the cuff paternal and the kiss maternal, the
latter being accompanied, as usual, with a reinforcement
to his purse and a plaudit to his spirit. Tippleton then
took a turn at college, where he received the last polish
before the premature notice to quit was served upon him;
and at seventeen he was truly “whole-souled,” playing
billiards as well as any “pony” in the land, and boxing
as scientifically as the “deaf 'un.” He could owe everybody
with a grace peculiar to himself; kick up the
noisiest of all possible rows at the theatre, invariably
timed with such judgment as to make a tumultuous rush
at the most interesting part of the play; he could extemporize
a fracas at a ball, and could put Cayenne pepper
in a church stove. The most accomplished young man
about town was Tippleton Tipps, and every year increased
his acquirements.
Time rolled on; the elder Tippses left the world
for their offspring to bustle in, and Tippleton, reaching
his majority, called by a stretch of courtesy the age of
discretion, received a few thousands as his outfit in
manhood. He, therefore, resolved to set up for himself,
determined to be a whole-souled fellow all the time,
instead of, as before, acting in that capacity after business
hours.
“Now,” said Tipps, exultingly, “I'll see what fun
is made of—now I'll enjoy life—now I'll be a man!”
And, acting on that common impression, which, however,
is not often borne out by the result, that when the
present means are exhausted something miraculous will
happen to recruit the finances, Tippleton commenced
operations,—stylish lodgings, a “high trotting horse,”
buggy, and all other “confederate circumstance.” It was
soon known that he was under weigh, and plenty of
friends forth with clustered around him, volunteering their
advice, and lending their aid to enable him to support the
character of a whole-souled fellow in the best and latest
manner. Wherever his knowledge happened to be deficient,
Diggs “put him up” to this, Twiggs “put him up”
to that, and Sniggs “put him up” to t'other, and Diggs,
Twiggs, and Sniggs gave him the preference whenever
they wanted a collateral security or a direct loan. Thus,
Tippleton not only had the pleasure of their company at
frolics given by himself, but had likewise the advantage
of being invited by them to entertainments for which his
own money paid.
“Clever is hardly a name for you, Tippleton,” said
Diggs, using the word in its cis-atlantic sense.
“No back-out in him,” mumbled Sniggs, with unwonted
animation.
“The whole-souled'st fellow I ever saw,” chimed
Twiggs.
Tippleton had just furnished his satellites with the
cash to accompany him to the races; for then he was yet
rather “flush.”
“Give me Tippleton anyhow,” said Diggs,—“he's
all sperrit.”
“And no mistake,” chimed Sniggs.
“He wanted it himself, I know he did,” ejaculated
Twiggs, “but, whole-souled fellow—” and Twiggs buttoned
his pocket on the needful, and squinted through
who walked suspiciously away from the door, as if they
didn't believe that
Tippleton Tipps, Esq.
Dr.
To sundries as per account rendered,
was “not in.” Tailors' boys, and shoemakers' boys,
and indeed, bill-bearing boys in general, are matter-of-factish
incredulous creatures at best, and have no respect
for the poetic licenses; they are not aware that whole-souled
people, like the mysterious ball of those ingenious
artists the “thimble riggers,” who figure upon the sward
on parade days, race days, hanging days, and other
popular jubilees, are either in or out as the emergencies
of the case require.
But what would not Tippleton do to maintain his
reputation? While he had the means, let borrowers be as
plenty as blackberries, they had only to pronounce the
“open sesame” to have their wishes gratified, even if
Tippleton himself were obliged to borrow to effect so
desirable an object. The black looks of landlords and
landladies, the pertinacities of mere business creditors,
what are they, when the name of a whole-souled fellow
is at stake? Would they have such a one sink into the
meanness of giving the preference to engagements which
bring no credit except upon books? Is selfishness so
predominant in their natures? If so, they need not look
to be honoured by the Tippleton Tippses with the light
of their countenance, or the sunshine of their patronage.
There is not a Tipps in the country who would lavish
interviews upon men or the representatives of men, who
have so little sympathy with the owners of whole-souls.
To such, the answer will invariably be “not in.”
“Tippleton Tipps, I've an idea,” said Diggs.
“Surprising,” said Tippleton moodily.
“A splendid idea—a fortune-making idea for you,”
continued Diggs.
Now, it so happened that Tippleton was just in that
situation in which the prospect of a fortune is a “splendid
idea,” even to a “whole-souled fellow.” His funds were
exhausted—his credit pumped dry; the horse and buggy
had been sequestered, “and something miraculous” in the
shape of relief had not happened. In fact, affairs were in
that desperate condition which offers no resource but the
dreadful one of suicide, or that still more dreadful alternative,
going to work,—running away without the means
being a matter of impossibility.
“As how?” interrogated Tippleton dubiously, he
having but little faith in the money-making schemes
broached by Diggs, that individual's talent lying quite in
another direction.
“As how?” chorussed Sniggs and Twiggs, who, as
hard run as their compatriots, snuffed free quarters in the
word, and a well-filled purse ready at their call.
“You must marry,” added Diggs. “Get thee a wife,
Tippleton.”
“Ah! that would improve the matter amazingly, and
be quite a profitable speculation,” replied Tippleton
ironically.
“To be sure—why not? What's to prevent a good
looking, whole-souled fellow like you from making a
spec?—Grimson's daughter, for instance—not pretty,
but plaguey rich—only child—what's to hinder—eh?”
“Yes—what's to hinder?” said Twiggs and Sniggs,
looking at each other, and then at Tippleton—“whole-souled—good
looking—and all that—just what the girls
like.”
“Perhaps they do, but papas do not,” said Tippleton,
with a meditating look; “as for old Grimson, he
hates 'em.”
“Very like; but you don't want to marry Grimson—
get the daughter, and the father follows—that's the plan.
If it must be so, why make an impression upon Miss
Jemima first—then shave off your whiskers, uncurl your
hair, put your hat straight on your head, and swear to a
reform—quit fun, go to bed early—very hard certainly,
but when matters are once properly secured, then you
know—ha! ha!” and Twiggs sportively knocked Tippleton
in the ribs.
“Ha! ha!” laughed Twiggs and Sniggs, poking each
other in the same anatomical region.
Although Tippleton had but little fancy for matrimony
in general, or for Miss Jemima Grimson in particular,
yet under the circumstances, he felt disposed to venture
on the experiment and to try what could be done. He
therefore continued the conversation, which happened
late one night in a leading thoroughfare, and which was
interrupted in a strange, startling manner.
An intelligent “hem!” given in that peculiar tone
which intimates that the utterer has made a satisfactory
discovery, seemed to issue from a neighbouring tree-box,
and as Messrs, Tipps, Diggs, Sniggs, and Twiggs directed
their astonished regards toward the suspected point, a
head decorated with a straw hat—a very unseasonable
article at the time, and more unseasonable from its lidlike
top, which opened and shut at each passing breeze—
protruded from the shelter.
“Ahem!” repeated the head, seeming to speak with
“most miraculous organ,” the wintry blast lifting up
the hat-crown and letting it fall again, as if it were the
mouth of some nondescript—“Ahem! I like the speckilation
or I'll peach. I knows old Grimsings—he lent me a kick
and a levy t'other day, and if I don't see good reason to
the contrayry, I mean to stick up fur him. It's a prime
speckilation fur me every-vich-vay.”
The conspirators were astonished, as well they might
be, at the sudden and unexpected apparition among them
of another “whole-souled fellow” with a dilapidated hat.
The stranger was Richard Dout, the undegenerated scion
of a noble house, the members of which have been conspicuous
in all ages—it was Richard, known to his
familiars by the less respectful, but certainly more affectionate
appellation of “Dicky Dout.” He is a man of
fine feelings and very susceptible susceptibilities, being
of that peculiar temperament which is generally understood
to constitute genius, and possessing that delicate
organization which is apt to run the head of its owner
against stone walls, and prompts him on all occasions to
put his fingers in the fire. He has, therefore, like his
illustrious progenitors, a strong affinity for “looped and
windowed raggedness,” and rather a tendency toward a
physical method of spiritualizing the grosser particles of
the frame. But for once, Dout was sharpened for
“speckilation.”
“I'm to go sheers,” added Dout, as if it were a settled
thing.
“Sheer off, you impudent rascal!” ejaculated the
party.
“Oh, I don't mind sass,” replied he, seating himself
coolly on the fire-plug, and deliberately tucking up the
only tail which remained to his coat—“Cuss as much as
you please—it won't skeer wot I know out o' me. Don't
hurt yourself, said Carlo to the kitten. I'll see Grimsings
in the morning, if I ain't agreeable here—I'm to
they're playin' of marvels. Let them knuckle down
close as can't help it,” concluded Dout, as he whistled
and rubbed his shin, and remarked that when “sot upon
a thing he was raal lignum witey.”
“Tippleton!” said Diggs.
“Well?” replied Tippleton.
“A fix!”
“Ra-a-ther.”
“Nullum go-um,” added Sniggs, who prided himself
upon his classical knowledge.
“E pluribum uniber, if you come to that,” interjected
Dout.
“We're caught,” added Twiggs, who dealt largely in
French; “we're caught, tootin in the assembly.”
“Does he know us?” inquired Tippleton.
“To be sure,” replied Dout—“we whole-souled
fellers knows everybody in the same line of business.”
This was decidedly a check—the speculators were
outgeneralled by the genius of the Douts; so making
a virtue of necessity, they mollified him by a slight
douceur scraped up at the time, and large promises for
the future. Dicky was forthwith installed as boot-cleaner
and coat-brusher to the party, as well as recipient of
old clothes, under condition of keeping tolerably sober
and very discreet.
Peace being thus concluded, Tippleton Tipps commenced
the campaign against the heart of Miss Jemima
Grimson, who liked whole-souled fellows, and began the
work of ingratiating himself with his father's old friend
Mr. Grimson, who cordially disliked whole-souled fellows.
In the first place, therefore, he ceased to associate publicly
with Diggs, Sniggs, and Twiggs, and contented himself
his creditors by demonstrating to them that he was a
young man of great expectations, and even contrived to
obtain advances upon the prospect, wherewith to keep
himself in trim and to nourish Dicky Dout. Miss Jemima
was delighted, for Tippleton had such a way with
him; while Mr. Grimson's unfavourable impressions
gradually vanished before his professions of reform and
improved conduct. The old gentleman employed him
as a clerk, and had a strong inclination either to “set him
up” or to “take him in.” “Such a correct, sensible
young man has he become,” quoth Grimson.
Things were thus beautifully en train, when Mr.
Grimson rashly sent his protegé with a sum of money
to be used in a specified way in a neighbouring city, and
the protegé, who longed to indulge himself in that which
he classically termed a “knock-around,” took his allies
Diggs, Sniggs, and Twiggs with him. The “cash proper”
being expended—the wine being in and the wit being
out—Tippleton being a whole-souled fellow, and his
companions knowing it, the “cash improper” was diverted
from its legitimate channel, and after a few days of roaring
mirth, they returned rather dejected and disheartened.
“Come, what's the use of sighing?” roared Tippleton,
as they sat dolorously in a snug corner at the headquarters
of the whole-souled fellows. “The money's
not quite out—Champagne!”
“Bravo, Tippleton!” responded his companions, and
the corks flew merrily—“That's the only way to see
one's road out of trouble.”
“Another bottle, Dout!—that for Grimson!” shouted
Tipps, snapping his fingers—“I'll run off with his
daughter—what do you say to that, Dicky Dout?”
Dicky dodged the cork which was flirted at him, and
regarding the company with a lugubrious air, observed:
“Accordin' to me, gettin' corned's no way—there's
only two business sitiations in which it's allowable—
one's when you're so skeered you can't tell what to do,
and the other's when your eyes is sot and it's no use
doin' nothin'—when you're goin', and when you're
gone—it makes you go by a sort of a slant, instead of a
bumping tumble. It eases a feller down like a tayckle,
when on temperance principles he'd break his neck.
For my part, I think this bustin' of yourn looks bad”—
Dicky filled a glass and drained its contents—“'specially
when you're goin' it on crab-apple cider.”
“Get out, Dicky Dout!—Fetch some cigars, Dicky
Dout!”
The party sang songs, the party made speeches, and
the party rapidly drank up the remainder of Mr. Grimson's
cash, a catastrophe which in their present state of
mind did not trouble them at all, except when they remembered
that no more money, no more wine. Boniface
was used to dealing with whole-souled fellows.
“Order, gentlemen!” said Tipps, rising to deliver an
address—“I don't get upon my feet to impugn the eyesight,
gentlemen, or the ear-sight, gentlemen, of any
member present; but merely to state that there are facts
—primary facts, like a kite, and contingent facts, like
bob-tails—one set of facts that hang on to another set of
facts”—and Tippleton grasped the table to support himself.
“The first of these facts is, that in looking out at
the window I see snow—I likewise hear sleigh-bells, from
which we have the bob-tailed contingent that we ought
to go a sleighing to encourage domestic manufactures.”
“Hurra!” said Diggs and Sniggs—“let's go a
sleighing!”
“Hurray!” muttered Twiggs, who sat drowsing over
an extinguished cigar and an empty glass—“let's go a
Maying!”
“I have stated, gentlemen,” continued Tipps, swaying
to and fro, and endeavouring to squeeze a drop from
a dry bottle—“several facts, but there is another—a
further contingent—the sleighing may be good, and we
ought to go—but, gentlemen, we've got no money!
That's what I call an appalling fact, in great staring capitals—the
money's gone, the Champagne's gone, but
though we made 'em go, we can't go ourselves!”
Tippleton Tipps sank into his chair, and added, as he
sucked at his cigar with closed eyes:
“Capitalists desiring to contract will please send in
their terms, sealed and endorsed `Proposals to loan.”'
“Cloaks, watches, and breast-pins—spout 'em,” hinted
Dout from a corner. “We whole-souled people always
plant sich articles in sleighing-time, and let's 'em crop
out in the spring.”
The hint was taken. As the moon rose, a sleigh whizzed
rapidly along the street, and as it passed, Tippleton
Tipps was seen bestriding it like a Colossus, whirling
his arms as if they were the fans of a windmill, and
screaming “'Tis my delight of a shiny night!” in which
his associates, including Dout, who was seated by the
driver, joined with all their vocal power.
“'Twas merry in the parlor, 'twas merry in the hall,”
when Tippleton, cum suis, alighted at a village inn.
Fiddles were playing and people were dancing all over
the house, and the new arrivals did not lose time in
adding to the jovial throng. Tippleton, seizing the barmaid's
cap, placed it on his own head, and using the
shovel and tongs for the apparatus of a fiddler, danced
and played on top of the table, while Dout beat the door
the “straight fours” of the company in the general
assembly-room by a specimen of the Winnebago war-dance,
the whole being accompanied by whoopings after
the manner of the aborigines.
The clamor drew the “select parties” into the passages
to see the latest arrivals from Pandemonium.
“Who cares for Grimson?” said Tipps, as he fiddled
and sung the following choice morceau from Quizembob's
Reliques of Lyric Poetry—
Oh 'twas neither for the better, nor yet for the worse;
He neither would give me a cow nor a horse,”—
“select parties” stood before him.
“So, Mr. Tippleton Tipps, this is your reform!
be pleased to follow me, and give an account of the
business intrusted to your charge,” said Mr. Grimson
sternly.
“Ha! ha!” laughed Tippleton, fiddling up to him—
“business—pooh! Dance, my old buck, dance like a
whole-souled fellow—like me—dance, Jemimy, it may
make you pretty—
Mr. Grimson turned indignantly on his heel, and Miss
Jemima Grimson, frowning volumes of disdain at seeing
her lover thus attired and thus disporting himself, and
at hearing him thus contumelious to her personal charms,
gave him what is poetically termed “a look,” and sailed
majestically out of the room leaning on her father's arm.
“Ha! ha!” said Tippleton, continuing to fiddle.
“The speckilation's got the grippe,” added Dout.
It was nearly morning when a pair of horses, with
the fragments of a sleigh knocking about their heels,
dashed wildly into Millet's stable yard. They were the
ponies which had drawn Tippleton Tipps and his cohort;
but where were those worthy individuals? At the
corner of a street, where the snow and water had formed
a delusive compound as unstable as the Goodwin sands,
lay Tippleton half “smothered in cream”—ice cream,
while “his lovely companions” were strewed along the
wayside at various intervals, according to the tenacity of
their grasp.
“The tea party's spilt,” said Dicky Dout, as he went
feeling among the snow with a fragment of the wreck,
and at length forked up Tippleton, as if he were a dumpling
in a bowl of soup.
The tableau was striking. The tender-hearted Dout
sat upon the curbstone with Tippleton's head upon his
knee, trying to rub a little life into him. It was a second
edition of Marmion and Clara de Clare at Flodden field,
the Lord of Fontenaye and Tippleton Tipps both being
at the climax of their respective catastrophes.
“Ah!” said Dout, heaving a deep sigh as he rubbed
away at his patient's forehead, as if it were a boot to
clean, “this night has been the ruination of us all—
we're smashed up small and sifted through. Here lies
Mr. Tipps in a predicary—and me and the whole on 'em
is little better nor a flock of gone goslings. It's man's
natur', I believe, and we can't help it no how. As fur me,
I wish I was a pig—there's some sense in being a pig
wot's fat; pigs don't have to speckilate and bust—pigs
never go a sleighing, quarrel with their daddies-in-law
wot was to be, get into sprees, and make tarnal fools of
themselves. Pigs is decent behaved people and good
citizens, though they ain't got no wote. And then they
they get up; they don't have to be darnin' and patchin'
their old pants; they don't wear no old hats on their
heads, nor have to ask people for 'em—cold wittles is
plenty for pigs. My eyes! if I was a jolly fat pig
belonging to respectable people, it would be tantamount
to nothin' with me who was president. Who ever see'd
one pig a settin' on a cold curbstone a rubbin' another
pig's head wot got chucked out of a sleigh? Pigs
has too much sense to go a ridin' if so be as they can
help it. I wish I was one, and out of this scrape.
It's true,” continued Dout thoughtfully, and pulling
Tippleton's nose till it cracked at the bridge-joint,—“it's
true that pigs has their troubles like humans—constables
ketches 'em, dogs bites 'em, and pigs is sometimes almost
as done-over suckers as men; but pigs never runs their
own noses into scrapes, coaxin' themselves to believe it's
fun, as we do. I never see a pig go the whole hog in
my life, 'sept upon rum cherries. I'm thinkin' Mr.
Tipps is defunct; he sleeps as sound as if it was time to
get up to breakfast.”
But Tipps slowly revived; he rolled his glassy eye
wildly, the other being, as it were, “put up for exportation,”
or “bunged” as they have it in the vernacular.
“Mister Tipps,” said Dout, “do you know what's
the matter?”
“Fun's the matter, isn't it?” gasped Tipps; “I've
been a sleighing, and we always do it so—it's fun this
way—but what's become of my other eye?—Where's—
stop—I remember. The horses and sleigh were in a
hurry, and couldn't stay—compliments to the folks, but
can't sit down.”
“Your t'other eye,” replied Dout, “as fur as I can
see, is kivered up to keep; the wire-edge is took considerable
wanted to make a pen of it, and your trousers is fractured.”
“Well, I thought the curbstone was uncommonly cold.
What with being pitched out of the sleigh, and the grand
combat at the hotel, we've had the whole-souled'st time
—knocked almost into a cocked hat. But if you don't
get thrashed, you haven't been a sleighing. What can
science do in a room against chairs, pokers, shovels, and
tongs? Swing it into 'em as pretty as you please, it's
ten to one if you're not quaited down stairs like clothes
to wash. Fun alive!—”
Here Tippleton Tipps yelled defiance, and attempted
to show how fields were won—or lost, as in his case;
but nature is a strict banker, and will not honour your
drafts when no funds are standing to your credit.
“Ah!” panted he, as he fell back into the arms of
Mr. Dout; “my frolic's over for once—broke off with
Grimson, spent his money—sleigh all in flinders, and I'll
have to get a doctor to hunt for my eye and put my nose
in splints. Ha! ha! there is no mistake in me—always
come home from enjoying myself, sprawling on a shutter,
as a gentleman should—give me something to talk
about—who's afraid?”
Even Dout was surprised to hear such valiant words
from the drenched and pummelled mass before him; and
as he stared, Tippleton mutteringly asked to be taken
home.
“I'm a whole-souled fellow,” whispered he faintly—
“whole-souled—and—no—mistake—about—the—matter—at—all.”
Assistance and “a shutter” being procured, Tippleton
Tipps was conveyed to his lodgings, where with a black
patch across his nose, a green shade over one eye, the
other being coloured purple, blue, and yellow halfway to
“wot won the fight,” his left arm in a sling, and his
right ankle sprained, sat Tippleton for at least a month,
the very impersonation, essence, and aroma of a “whole-souled
fellow.” As soon, however, as he was in marching
order, he suddenly disappeared, or perhaps was exhaled,
like Romulus and other great men, boldly walking right
through his difficulties, and leaving them behind him in
a state of orphanage.
The last heard of Dout was his closing speech after
taking Tipps home on the night of the catastrophe.
“My speckilation has busted its biler. To my notion
this 'ere is a hard case. If I tries to mosey along through
the world without saying nothin' to nobody, it won't do
—livin' won't come of itself, like the man you owe
money to—you are obligated to step and fetch it. If I
come fur to go fur to paddle my tub quietly down the
gutter of life without bumping agin the curbstone on one
side, I'm sure to get aground on the other, or to be upsot
somehow. If I tries little speckilations sich as boning
things, I'm sartin to be cotch; and if I goes pardeners,
as I did with Mr. Tipps, it won't do. Fips and levies
ain't as plenty as snowballs in this 'ere yearthly spear.
But talking of snowballs, I wish I was a nigger. Nobody
will buy a white man, but a stout nigger is worth the
slack of two or three hundred dollars. I hardly believe
myself there is so much money; but they say so, and
if I could get a pot of blackin' and some brushes, I'd
give myself a coat, and go and hang myself up for sale
in the Jarsey Market, like a froze possum.”
Dout walked gloomily away, and the story goes that
when this whole-souled fellow in humble life was finally
arrested as a vagrant, his last aspiration as he entered the
prison, was: “Oh! I wish I was a pig, 'cause they
ain't got to go to jail!”
| A WHOLE-SOULED FELLOW;
OR,
THE DECLINE AND FALL OF TIPPLETON TIPPS. Charcoal sketches, or, Scenes in a metropolis | |