Chronicles of Pineville embracing sketches of Georgia scenes, incidents, and characters |
 | GREAT ATTRACTION!
OR
THE DOCTOR MOST OUDACIOUSLY TUCK IN. |
 | Chronicles of Pineville |  |
GREAT ATTRACTION!
OR
THE DOCTOR MOST OUDACIOUSLY TUCK IN.
A SKETCH FROM REAL LIFE.
“Oh, Jim, the great attraction's come to town!”
gasped a little fellow to his friend, as he was hastening
home to impart the glad tidings to his family.
“The which?” inquired Jim, turning suddenly
round; his eyes, mouth, and every feature expressive
of the liveliest curiosity.
Jim's informant had “no time to turrey” for a
more particular explanation, but hurried on, leaving
the latter to infer that something extraordinary was
to pay, from some broken sentences which he uttered
about “show—down to Capt. Brown's Tavern—big
picters—Dr. Jones,” &c.,—which could not be distinctly
heard at so great and rapidly increasing distance.
But Jim did hear “show—Capt. Brown's
tavern,” and he had a clue to the matter.
Away dashed Jim—and when he arrived at the
aforesaid tavern, he beheld a crowd of gazing men
and boys gathered in the bar-room, looking with all
stood these magic words:
GREAT ATTRACTION!!
FOR TWO NIGHTS ONLY!!!
All was wonderment and curiosity, and Jim for once
experienced the inadequacy of the human capacity
for such extraordinary occasions—he could not make
out the “printin” himself—and his mind was totally
incapable of taking in and making use of half he
heard. “What upon yeath is it?” he asked of the
nearest. One said it was the “great attraction from
New York”—another that it was the Fourth of July
on horseback—some one else that it was “all sorts
of a thing,” and his curiosity was rather increased
than diminished when Dr. Jones, who chanced to
be there, volunteered to read it all off to the crowd,
if they would only keep silence. Then there was a
Babel of voices calling silence for several minutes.
“Silence! till the doctor reads it,” shouted one.
“Silence, fellers, silence!” bawled another.
“Shet your mouth, Bill Parker, no body can't
hear nothin' for you.”
“Silence! silence!” repeated a dozen at a time.
When they had become somewhat quiet, the doctor
mounted a chair, and, after running the thing
over for a minute or two, during which the faces of
his audience indicated the strongest symptoms of
insupportable suspense, he read out in a full round
tone, and right off without spelling a word, the
whole bill, from “Great Attraction,” to “performances
to commence at half-past seven, precisely.”
own, he condescended to explain the matter to his
eager listeners. He told them that it was a thing
called a circus, derived from circle for horses to
run round in—that it was a very wonderful thing—
that circus-men were the “most surprisen'est creatures”
he had ever met with anywhere—that he had
“seed” a great many of them in Augusta, when
he was at college, and knew all about them—that
they could ride the swiftest horses without saddle
or bridle, on their heads—could dance on wires
and ropes, could jump to all creation, could eat fire,
swallow broad-swords, and perform all manner of
antics. Many questions were pressed in regard to
the show, to all of which the doctor made the most
satisfactory answers, as one perfectly familiar with
such things, and the crowd dispersed to await the
advent of this, to them, eighth wonder of the world.
But we left Thomas Stullings on his way home to
announce the arrival of the show to the Stullings
family, who, we should not forget to inform the
reader, were people of consequence in Pineville.
Widow Stullings was rich—owned a fine plantation
and lots of negroes—a circumstance which doubtless
enhanced the estimation in which her three amiable
daughters were held by the village beaux.
“Oh, mother! guess what's come to town!” exclaimed
Thomas, as he dashed his hat into one chair
and threw himself into another, almost fainting for
want of breath.
“I don't know, Tommy,” replied the old lady,
raising her eyes from her sewing until she caught a
respiration. “Why, Laws-a-massy! what ails the
child? Is the Ingins ris again?” she asked, dropping
her work and rising from her seat.
“No, mother,” replied Tommy, as soon as he
could command sufficient breath, “but something
else.”
By this time the whole household were attracted
by Thomas's strange manner.
“What is it, then, Thomas?” demanded two or
three at the same time.
“A great attraction—a circus!”
“A what?”
“A circus, Dr. Jones says—a whole heap of circus
riders.”
“Oh, la! is that all?—why child your uncle Moses
was a circuit-rider, on the Green Meadow circuit, for
upwards of five years, until he went to live in the
Hogtown settlement, where he died, poor —”
“Oh, no, mother, uncle Moses couldn't ride on
his head, and swallow broad-swords, could he?”
“Why, Thomas, you must be crazy! who ever
heard of sich a thing as preachers riding on their
heads, and —”
“Ha, ha,” shouted Tommy, “these aint preachers,
mother, they're show-folks; Dr. Jones says so.”
Little could be gathered from what Thomas had
to communicate. The old lady was sorely puzzled,
but the young ladies had learned enough to excite
their curiosity beyond the point of endurance; so it
was determined to despatch Thomas to request Dr.
Jones to call over and tell them all about it, as they
whole matter. Accordingly the doctor was sent for,
and for once in his life his treatment proved successful.
He soon relieved the fit of curiosity into which
Thomas's news had thrown them, by relating all the
information which his travels, as well as his close
intimacy with the bill-poster of the company, who
had just arrived in town, enabled him to glean.
Doctor Peter Jones should be formally introduced
to the reader as the most important personage who
figures in our sketch. He was a well grown young
man, rather tall, with light gray eyes, abundantly
large for the ordinary purposes of that organ, whitish
eyebrows, and hair rather inclined to sorrel. There
were no particular indications of uncommon talent
in his countenance, and from a rather imperfect
knowledge of his developments, we should say that,
in his case, phrenology and physiognomy agreed.
Nevertheless the doctor was a firm believer in the
first of these sciences, in consequence of which he
was in the habit of cutting away his locks about his
forehead and temples, in order to acquit himself of
“a forehead villanously low.”
The doctor was not yet in possession of a sheep-skin
license to practise the healing art, nor were the
public much indebted to him for the exercise of his
medical skill, though he had been known to pull a
tooth or so, and on one occasion was supposed to
have saved the life of a negro who had been kicked
by a wayward mule, by a resort to his favourite
remedy phlebotomy. He had attended one course
of lectures at Augusta, and returned to his native
a winter's residence in that Philadelphia of the south
affords such ample opportunities for acquiring. Such
had been his improvement in point of deportment,
dress, and conversation, that his former acquaintances
would scarcely have recognised him in his
new guise, had they met him anywhere else than
at home. He no longer tolerated Kentucky-jeans
and thick-soled shoes, but a graceful, shining blue
cloth coat of the latest cut, pants to match, and a
pair of stilt-heeled boots, with a black velvet cap,
which sat jauntily on the top of his head, the visor
almost concealing his eyes, a walking-cane of the
most delicate polish, and, of nights or rainy days, a
professional looking camblet wrapper, constituted
his usual costume. All these little advantages conspired
to give the doctor undisputed precedence in
the estimation of the young ladies, a fact of which
he was not a little vain, and adding to it the reputation
he had acquired for smartness, which is so
generally conceded to students, whether of medicine
or other professions, the doctor could not but feel
himself, to use one of his own polished expressions
—“bully of the tan-yard.”
As leading characters generally direct public
opinion in all matters of propriety, fashion, &c., the
stand which the doctor had taken in relation to the
circus, now for the first time introduced into the
village, was calculated to make it exceedingly
popular, and, of course, vastly to benefit the little
troop of equestrians, who had resorted to the expedient
of travelling, to avoid the heavy expenses of
doctor obtained from the avant-courier of the company
a few small bills, which he industriously circulated
among the ladies of his acquaintance, who
had almost unanimously resolved to attend, and the
whole village gave “note of dreadful preparation”
for the coming fète.
Before night a light wagon, drawn by two spotted
horses, drove up to the tavern. In an hour all Pineville
was rife with rumours,—each had made some
discovery, and each had some marvel to relate—
few slept that night, and by ten o'clock the next
morning the news had spread far and wide into the
surrounding country that a great show was to come
off in town that evening. During the day the balance
of the company arrived, and long before night
the canvass pavilion was reared. Blasts of the
French horn, and scrapings of fiddle-strings, might
be heard within, while the doctor and some two or
three smart negroes belonging to the hotel, the only
ones who had free ingress, might be seen passing
in and out; which circumstance greatly excited the
envy of the little boys, who all seemed to have business
on this particular occasion in the neighbourhood
of Captain Brown's back lot. The doctor had
given them all the information which such interesting
strangers usually require about saw-dust, tan-bark,
and the like, and every thing was progressing
finely, as the shades of evening drew on. He announced
in a confidential manner to the manager,
the extent to which his personal influence had been
exerted, and concluded, as he left the pavilion, by
“jam,” a technical term upon which he placed
considerable emphasis.
It was night. As if Christmas, New Year, and
the Fourth of July had all come together—had all
been concentrated into one glorious holiday—the
people, town and country, white and black, old
and young, came trooping towards the enclosure,
which was now brilliantly lighted up, and from
which burst a loud peal of music, such as never had
been heard before in Pineville. The effect was
electric; none within hearing of that “sonorous
metal blowing martial sounds,” could resist its thrilling
appeals. Those who had thrown the half dollar
in the scale against the show and found the latter
“wanting,” now felt their pockets kick the beam,
and resolved to “go it any how.”
The negroes were frantic,—the older ones might
be seen in all directions giving way to the impulse
in the most “highly concentrated” double shuffles,
while the little niggerlings sprang into the air,
clapped their hands, shouted, or lay down and
rolled in an agony of delight. Troops were pressing
to the yet unopened entrance, when suddenly a
loud report was heard, and a brilliant skyrocket shot
far up into the star-lit heavens, burst in air, and
came showering down in innumerable coruscant
stars of variegated fire. This marvellous phenomenon
was hailed with screams from the more timid
sex, rather coarser ejaculations of surprise from the
men, and shouts from the boys and negroes. But
the sensation which it had produced was suddenly
And then there was such a rush, such a scrambling
to be first, and such a changing of money!
Of course the doctor was on the spot, but he had
been to Augusta and knew a thing or two about
circuses. He had purchased his tickets during the
day, and now stood with an air of exclusive complacency,
a little back from the throng, smiling at
the eagerness of the uninitiated crowd, occasionally
assuring the anxious bevy of pretty girls under his
care, that they need not be alarmed, as he had taken
the precaution to secure their seats, which, he said,
was the universal custom in Augusta. At length
the way being somewhat cleared, the doctor made
his “grand entree,” at the head of about half a dozen
young ladies, all dressed and bedizened off in the
latest and most exquisite fashion, with flowing headdresses,
and many other little killing appliances of
the toilette, which showed to great advantage, and
rendered them as irresistible to the beaux, as a phalanx
of grenadiers. The doctor felt the importance
of his position,—they were “the observed of all
observers,” and he the observed of them; at least
he made himself so, for he flew about them with the
graceful agility of a professor of the “poetry of motion,”
ordering off a little gang of urchins who had
taken possession of his front bench, informing them,
in a voice loud enough to be heard above all the
confusion, that he had “secured them seats from
the manager himself.”
Some time elapsed, during which the crowd,
which was really immense, settled down into their
amphitheatre, and drank in the rich tones of a very
respectable band for a travelling circus. The doctor,
in the mean time, entertained the ladies and those in
his immediate vicinity, by pointing out to them the
various fixtures of the ring, explaining their purposes,
and in some measure anticipating their enjoyment,
by relating what was to take place.
The audience had not yet grown impatient, when
a tall, pale-faced mulatto, his hair brushed up to a
cone, with an unreasonably long frock-coat, and a
pair of boots with red morocco tops, which he wore
over the legs of his pantaloons, rushed suddenly
from behind a canvass curtain in the rear, threw
open the low enclosure of the ring, and as suddenly
disappeared. What did all that mean? Astonishment
was depicted in every countenance, but this
soon gave place to amazement; for the next moment,
a loud blast from the band,—and in they
came,—the horses leaping furiously into the ring,
while their riders, dressed in their gaudy costumes,
all glittering with silver and gold, with their white
waving plumes and flowing sashes, looked like so
many knights of the olden time. In their rear, and
on a horse so small that he would perhaps have
been overlooked, was the clown, who, as soon as
he entered the ring, shouted out, “Come along
here, all my equestrian performancers!” Ranged
in a line across the ring, each young gentleman
doffed his beaver, and made a graceful obeisance to
the audience; then, suddenly wheeling off, they
dashed round the ring at the top of their speed,
children to grasping their parents' knees or arms,
whichever were handiest, and some whimpered a
little; but upon being told that they should go right
straight home if they didn't be good, they drew
closer and were quiet.
“Oh, my gracious!” gasped Miss Mary Stullings,
as one of the horses made a slight stumble.
“Don't be scared, Miss Mary, it's only the grand
entree.”
“But wont they fall off, doctor?”
“Not a bit, they wont—they're used to it, they
don't never fall off.”
“Oh, what a pretty little boy!” said Miss Johnson;
“he's just like Coopid, for all the world.”
“Oh, pa! look at that spotted man,—his horse
can go just as fast as any, can't he, pa? What's he
got them long red things sticking up in his head for,
pa—say, pa?”
But pa was too deeply engaged to hear or answer
these interesting queries.
“No, you don't!” shouted the spotted man, as he
reigned his horse across the ring from the rear and
placed him in front of the flying troop—“this child
aint to be beat, no how you can fix it!”
A loud burst of laughter followed this ruse of the
clown, which was prolonged by the negroes from
the corner where they sat stowed away like a pile
of bricks. Just as the audience were getting dizzy
at the incessant and impetuous whirl of men and
horses before them, the troop suddenly came to a
halt, and, at the word, all the elegantly caparisoned
to rest from the fatigue which they had so lately
undergone. All but the clown's were perfectly docile—
he found considerable difficulty in managing
his horse. When he bore down its neck it would
switch its tail, and when he stood on its tail it would
raise its head; which refractory and very ungenteel
conduct, he reprehended in strong terms, but all to
no purpose. Finally, a downright quarrel ensued
between them; and, while the horse chased him
round the ring, he called lustily to his master to
“take him off,” remarking that he held biting and
kicking to be extremely vulgar, and would fight no
one who practised such foul play. This difficulty
settled, the troop again mounted, made another respectful
obeisance, and retired amid the shouts and
cheers of the delighted audience.
The time which elapsed between this fête and the
next, was passed in conversation. The doctor reminded
the ladies that that was nothing to what he
had seen in Augusta. The ladies thought it was a
“dreadful pretty sight, if they didn't skare one so.”
The doctor begged them not to be skared, and assured
them that there was not the “least particle”
of danger.
Miss Johnson desired to know of Miss Rogers,
which of the circus-men she “liked the best.”
“Oh, that tall one, with the black curly hair; I
do think he is the handsomest young gentleman I
ever saw.”
“Oh no, I think that one with the white silk
jacket and blue sash is a great deal handsomer—
“Why you all can't tell how they look, at night,
dressed up so,” remarked the doctor. “That's
Howard, you mean, Miss Mary, and he's pockmarked
as the mischief.”
“Ha, ha!” laughed Miss Rogers, leaning back,
and placing her handkerchief to her mouth,—“the
doctor is jealous.”
“No, I aint,” replied the doctor.
“Aint you 'shamed, Lucy,” said Miss Mary, colouring
at the same time that she sent a look of
reproach towards Miss Rogers.
“If you could only see them by day-light, in their
common clothes,” said the doctor; but he was interrupted
by that long-faced mulatto whom we have
before described, who now made his appearance
with a white horse, and, directly after him, came
the ring-master, with a long whip, followed by the
clown, who announced his coming by shouting—
“Come along here, Mr. Callahan, we'll have a little
bit of your fun!”
Now there was a buzz throughout the audience—
the music struck up, and away went Mr. Callahan,
standing erect on his horse and throwing himself
into all manner of graceful attitudes—now looking
back, as if he had left something behind—now pointing
ahead, as if he saw something in front—now on
one leg, then on the other, and finally brought his
fun to a close by making several lofty leaps, his
horse at full speed, over whips, hoops, garters, canvass,
&c., &c.—the clown all the while keeping up
and the rest of the company—saying many witty
things, which kept the whole audience convulsed
with laughter.
Next came the spring-board, which the doctor at
once recognised, and the whole troop were engaged
for some twenty minutes, in “feats of ground and
lofty tumbling,” each one of which elicited torrents
of applause; and the doctor having introduced the
more fashionable mode of expressing approbation,
the clapping of hands had by this time become very
general. The clown failed in every attempt.
“Why, pa,” said one little fellow who had
watched the spring-board performances for some
time with a countenance of painful seriousness,
“that spotted man's a fool, aint he?”
“Yes, my son, he's a very good fool.”
“What do the people clap their hands so for,
pa?”
“They are clapping the performers, because they
do so well.”
Just then it came the clown's turn to throw a
somerset over the back of a chair, instead of which,
he jumped awkwardly against it, and pitched chair
and all on the ground; then springing up and applying
a little saw-dust to his nose,—his sovereign remedy
for bruises and sprains,—he walked off with
an air of triumph, as much as to say—beat that who
can!
A tremendous round of applause followed.
“They clapped the spotted man because he done
it so bad,—didn't they, pa,—say, pa?”
During the performance of these novel antics
there was a very general stretching of necks on the
lower seats, and the cry “hats off in front!” was
heard from all quarters. On a front seat, in the
very thickest of the crowd, sat a fellow well known
as fighting Bill Sweeny, with one of those ponderous
structures of wool and rabbit's fur on his head, denominated
a bell-crowned hat, but rather more resembling
an inverted church-bell, than the modern
article designed for the covering of the “dome of
thought.” Bill gloried in his celebrity as bully of
the county, and such was the obstinacy of his nature,
and so much did he delight in an opportunity of picking
up a fight, that he would not have removed that
hat without one, though it had eclipsed the view of
one half the audience. When asked to “just please
to take it off, Mr. Sweeny,” in the gentlest and most
persuasive tone possible, his reply was a nudge of
the elbow, and, “oh go to h—ll, will you?”
The performances went on. Bill sat with his
hands thrust in his pockets, intently watching every
movement, occasionally laughing and swearing to
himself, “how smart they is!” Presently, just as
the clown was doing “eels in the mud” with such
rapid velocity that he looked “for all the world”
like some great spotted snake, writhing and twisting
in wildest contortions, Bill felt and heard a thundering,
crashing pressure from above, and the next moment
all was darkness to him, while the shouts and
yells of the audience fell in smothered tones upon
his ears. His first impression was that the pavilion
had fallen in; but as he sprang from his seat and
increased, he was at once convinced that the
boys had been “projectin”' with him. Mad with
rage, he leaped like a cat into the ring—his arms
still tied and his hat resting upon his shoulders, as if
his neck and part of his head had actually been driven
into his body—shouting as well as he could for the
obstruction of his head-stall—“Unloose me! unloose
me, I say! and I'll whoop the whole belin' of ye!”
An effort was made to get him out of the ring by
those whom the confusion had thrown into it—the
circus-men taking no part in the fray. Not being
able to get his hands to his head, he was still in darkness;
and, as his “next friend,” a drunken bully of
a fellow, approached him with—“Here, Billy, don't
be so fractious—I's your friend, you knows I is”—he
gave him such a kick on the shins as set them together
by the ears in a twinkling. Bill had broken the
cord that bound his arms, and now they had it, good
Georgia fashion—best man on top. Notwithstanding
he was muzzled, the disadvantages under which
he fought were not so considerable as one might suppose—for
if he was deprived of the use of his mouth,
his eyes were equally out of harm's way, while his
experience enabled him to feel in the right place for
those of his antagonist.
There was some confusion among the audience—
some of the ladies were for retiring,—but the manager
requested all to keep their seats, while the doctor
called upon the gentlemen present to part the two
bullies who were now making the tan and saw-dust
fly at a tremendous rate. Some dozen volunteered
Saceny blood was “riz”—and blind not only with
rage, but by reason of his hat still being over his
eyes, he fought at random and with desperation;
and for a few minutes there was ground and lofty
tumbling with a vengeance. But poor Bill was
forced to strike to superior numbers, and was borne
out of the ring, where he was finally pacified, after
his hat had been removed; which, however, was
much harder to come off than it had been to go on.
It required a long pull and a strong pull—indeed
some fears were entertained of his neck giving way;
and the doctor, who had taken an active part in the
matter, after the fighting was over, facetiously remarked
that it was a very fortunate circumstance that
Mr. Sweeny's nose, which had become tangled in
the lining, was not large, and was inclined to the
snub, or he should have been under the necessity of
sending home for his instruments.
Quiet having been once more restored, the performances
were resumed. Several surprising acts of
horsemanship had been gone through with, the audience
had nearly forgotten the late interruption, in
their enjoyment of the evening's entertainments, and
the clown was taking a little ride to himself, to the
tune of “a little frog would a wooing go,” when in
tumbled another man with a bell-crowned hat, almost
under the horse's feet! The music ceased—the horse
came to a halt, and the clown desired the man to
leave the ring. But the fellow scrambled up and
walked as well as he could (for he was evidently
very drunk) still further into the forbidden circle,
he had come to ride.
“Who-o-o-o!” exclaimed the clown—“you ride
a circus-horse!—did you ever hear such insurance?”
“I say, Spotty—”
“Mr. Merryman, if you please.”
“Well, Mr. Merryman, if you please, wont you
give me a ride?”
“Who-o-o-o! you must go out of here, I tell you.”
The doctor could not sit still. “Now that's too
bad,” said he. “Who is that drunken fellow, now,
come to kick up another fuss? If he was in Augusta,
they'd have him in the guard-house in less
than no time.”
“I paid my half dollar to come in here, and I'm
guine to have a ride or a fight, one. I doesn't pay
money to see other people ride, myself.”
“I'll call master. Master-r-r-r!”
“Fetch him out, if you've got any grudge agin
him, and I'll lick him too,” said the man with the
bell-crowned hat, as he laid hold of the clown's leg
and began pulling him off the horse.
“Murder! robbery! thieves! burglary and kidnapping!”
shouted the clown.
The audience began to get alarmed again—the
doctor rose in his seat and called to the crowd to
“turn him out!” The ring-master came running in,
evidently much exasperated.
“What's your name, sir?” he demanded.
“Eh?—my name's Joe Peters, from Cracker's
Neck; do you want any thing out o' me?” throwing
himself into a fighting attitude.
“If this man has any friends here, they will do
well to take him out before he gets into difficulty,”
said the ring-master.
“Yes, before I get hold of him,” added the clown.
“What's that you say, Spotty?” said Joe, turning
to the last speaker.
Here the doctor excused himself to the ladies,
strode across the ring, and, laying his hand on Joe's
shoulder, peremptorily ordered him to leave the enclosure.
Joe turned, and placed himself in a defensive position.
“Come, some of you gentlemen, and help turn
this blackguard out of the show,” said the doctor,
beckoning to a group of young men.
“That's right, doctor, take him off before he gets
hurt, for maybe his ma don't know he's out.”
Two young men came to the doctor's assistance,
but no sooner had the one in advance come close to
Joe, than he turned round and ran back, exclaiming
in an under-tone—“That chap belongs to the show,
I can smell it on his breath!”
The other followed his example, leaving the doctor
alone to manage the intruder, who now staggered
up to him, and demanded if he wanted to fight. The
doctor grasped him by the shoulder, and had succeeded
in forcing him some distance towards the
door, amidst the gibes and taunts of the audience,
when Joe became more resolute in his resistance,
declaring he would have a ride. A scuffle ensued,
during which a good part of the audience were shouting
and cheering,—some for the doctor and some for
Joe, thrusting his head between the doctor's legs,
raised him off the ground, and dancing once or twice
round the ring, despite that gentleman's most determined
efforts to dismount, which he manifested by
throwing his legs and arms about in the wildest confusion,
tossed him pell-mell on the heads of the negroes,
who squalled in concert with the general shout.
The doctor was dreadfully mortified at this unlooked-for
reverse, and was about returning furiously
to the charge, when the clown approached him with
a significant wink.
“Never mind, doctor, we'll get shut of him—we'll
give him a ride now.” Then turning to Joe, who
was approaching the horse's heels, “so, you want a
ride or a fight, do you, eh?”
“Yes, I want to ride that 'ere horse, Spotty, and
I'm the boy that's gwine to do it, too.”
“Well, sir, you've got to whip me first,” putting
on a savage look and giving his teeth a grind.
“I'm your boy,” said Joe, “I's another chick to
Bill Sweeny!”
“The h—ll you is!—just give Bill Sweeny a fair
shake and he can whoop blue blazes out of ye,
though,” growled the bully of the county, who was
again in his seat.
The clown put himself into a pugilistic attitude.
Joe was up to the mark, and, after a few passes, was
knocked heels over head on the tan.
“Oh!” exclaimed the ladies.
“Serves him right!” said the doctor—“he'll get
his fill before he quits that ring.”
“Hurra, Joe! show your game!” shouted several.
“Give it to him, Spotty!”
“Oh, I want to go home,” cried a timid little fellow,
from between his father's knees.
The next minute Spotty was down, who, as soon
as he struck the ground, shouted—“Enough, take
him off!” Then springing up and applying a handful
of tan-bark to his nose, he extended the other
hand to Joe, remarking—
“You've whipt a gentleman, Joe,—what's your
name?—oh, ah, Peters! Mr. Joseph Peters, from
Cracker's Neck. You shall have a ride, Mr. Peters.
Will you have a fresh horse, Mr. Peters?” Then
turning to the doctor, he continued—“We'll give
him a ride—there's more ways to kill a dog besides
choking him with butter, you know.”
Joe was soon mounted, with his back towards the
horse's head. The clown called out for the hardest
trotting-tune the musicians could play. Pop went
the whip, and away flew the horses, Joe floundering
on his back like a drunken man in a quagmire.
“Now, doctor,” called out the clown, “if you
want to see a cracker's neck cracked—”
“Good enough for the fool,” exclaimed the doctor
with a conceited chuckle.
“Oh, mercy!” screamed the ladies, as Joe pitched
forward, and seemed only to hold to the neck of the
flying charger, with one arm.
But what was their astonishment when they beheld
him first rise to his knees on the saddle, then to his
feet, where he stood reeling and tottering as if he
horse continued at the top of his speed.
“Whoop-e-e!” shouted the clown, “if Joe aint on
his feet!”
“Good gracious!” exclaimed the ladies. The
doctor stared, but said nothing.
Joe now dropped the bridle, and said he felt warm.
“Take off your coat to it, Mr. Peters,” replied the
clown; “you've got plenty of friends here.”
Off came Joe's frock-coat and his bell-crowned
hat, and the general opinion was that his personal
appearance was much improved by the change. The
clown had donned the coat and hat, and now cut a
more ludicrous figure than ever, as he followed round
the ring, picking up the coats and vests which Joe
threw off one after the other to the number of twenty,
or more. At length Joe had come to the last vest,
and was unbuttoning his suspenders, when the clown
called out—
“Stop, Joe! stop! there's ladies here!”
But off went the pants, while the clown, with his
hands over his face, continued—
“Stop! stop!—oh, Joe! aint you ashamed of yourself?—oh,
for shame!”
Then uncovering his face, he beheld his man Joe
transformed into a woman, trigged out in a flounced
muslin, and a fashionable opera hat. This sudden
metamorphose was hailed with one universal squall
from the audience, while the clown shrank aghast
from the apparition of a wife from whom he had absconded.
But on went the horse amid the deafening
shout, when suddenly the female dress dropped from
in all his gilt and spangles, who, after a few extra
feats, just to show them what Joe Peters, from Cracker's
Neck could do, threw a backward somerset from
his horse and retired, amidst the reiterated acclamations
of the audience.
The clown, who now presented the appearance of
a wonderfully corpulent man, having stuffed Joe's
coats, jackets, gown, &c., into the waist of his coat,
approached his master, with a chop-fallen air, and
inquired—
“Master, can you tell me why I'm very much like
our friend, the doctor?”
“No,—why are you?”
“'Cause,” said he, unbuttoning the coat and letting
the garments fall at his feet—“'cause I feel a
great deal smaller than I did a while ago.”
Such another shout as followed, never before re-echoed
through the quiet streets and lanes of Pineville.
The doctor was in every mouth—“Hurra for
the doctor!”—“How do you feel now, doctor?”—
“Is that the way they does in Augusta?”—“When
you gwine to show agin, doctor, I's sure to come”—
and a hundred other such jeers were aimed at the
unfortunate doctor; who, mortified to such a degree
that he knew not what to do with himself, rose in his
seat and addressed the almost frantic multitude—
“It's a fact, ladies and gentlemen—I was most
oudaciously tuck in that time—that's a fact.”
Fortunately, it was the last act of the performances,
for such was the ungovernable humour of
the crowd, after what had happened, that it would
that night.
How matters were conducted on the following
night—positively the last of the “Great Attraction”
in Pineville—we have not learned; we have heard
it hinted, however, that Dr. Peter Jones did not
attend, though he was loudly called for by the
audience.
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