I LOCATED in a delightful place called “Cold Spring,” in the suburbs of Buffalo, and there remained two weeks; during which time I recovered from my cough, and the gash on my chin healed up. I made some pleasing acquaintances at Cold Spring, and became as much attached to the beautiful locality as though I had lived there for years.
From Buffalo I went to Erie, Pennsylvania; thence, to Cleveland, Ohio, a beautiful city of about forty-five thousand inhabitants, situated on the shore of Lake Erie.
As I desired to remain at Cleveland a week or so, I took lodgings at an hotel about two or three miles from the city, near the terminus of the City Railway, where the air was clear and pure and the green fields lay spread out around me; and yet where I could jump on a street-car and ride into the heart of the city in twenty-five or thirty minutes.
While at this hotel, a little incident happened to me, which some might term “funny”—but I did not think it so at the time, because it was rather calculated to wound my pride and dignity—and which further illustrates the mortification to which an unhappy one-legged fellow is sometimes subjected, through the pardonable ignorance or want of judgment of others. I was sitting on the piazza of the hotel one delightful evening in September enjoying the mild balmy air and admiring the glowing sunset, when two charming young ladies, in a buggy, drove up to the pump in front of the hotel obviously with the intention of quenching their delicate thirst by quaffing the pure, sparkling water. One was about to jump out for the purpose of getting the water for herself and her companion. No one else was near. Could I sit there and see the beautiful creature climb out for a draught of the water, when it was in my power to help them both to it where they sat, and thus save them the trouble? Not while my name was John Smith—and thus far the Legislature of my State had not been petitioned to change it.
“Do not get out, miss,” I said, rising, taking up my crutch, and walking to the pump. “Do not get out: I will hand you a drink.—Fine evening.”
“Yes, very.—But, I am afraid it’s too much tr—”
“O, not at all,” said I, taking the pump-handle in one hand, and with the other holding the tin cup that was at the pump under the spout. “Pray remain where you are.”
“You are so kind——”
“O, not at all,” I interrupted, as the sparkling water gushed from the spout and overflowed the cup.
I handed the cup to the nearest fair one, and she handed it to her companion.
“You drink,” said her companion.
“O, no; you,” said the fair one nearest me.
“No you drink first,” said the other.
“I won’t: you must drink first.” So, the one farthest from me took the cup and drank.
I describe this little episode in the incident, because I suppose it to be a scene entirely new, and one that no person ever saw any thing like before (?).
When the lovely one on the other side had drank, the lovely one on my side took the cup, which was yet half full, drank it off and handed me the vessel, with a sweet,
“Thank you.”
“Will you have some more?”
“No, thank you.”
“Perhaps, the other lady——” It will be seen that I was getting extremely gallant.
“No, thank you; no more,” interrupted the other lady.
They had been driving in the country—driving at a lively pace, probably—and I noticed that the horse was perspiring and looked tired and thirsty; so, my humanity being fully equal to my gallantry, I said:
“Here is a bucket at the pump—perhaps your horse would—”
“O, you couldn’t——”
“Yes, I can easily give the animal a bucket of water.” And I set the bucket under the spout.
“If I thought you could, easily——”
“I can, I assure you.”
I pumped the bucket full in three seconds and a fraction, picked it up and held it to the mouth of the “noble steed.” He drank it, seemed satisfied, and looked volumes of thanks at me with his big eyes. Considering my mission at an end, I set the bucket down, and stood by the pump in a position favorable to touching my cap gracefully to the ladies as they should thank me and drive off, which I supposed they would now do. But here comes the mortifying part. One of the ladies held out her hand. Was she going to shake hands with me and bid me an affectionate farewell? No. My brain reeled, as I looked closer at the hand.
“Here, please take it,” said she.
Take——not the hand, but a ten-cent note which she held out and desired me to “take” in return for my distinguished services. I felt the hot blood rush to my cheeks, but mastering my emotion, I said:
“O, no, miss, I thank you, indeed. I am not the porter here now. I used to be, but my Uncle Charles Exeter Johnson Smith died two days before last Christmas a year ago, and left me a large fortune; since which time, I have only been a boarder here. I thank you. Good evening.” And I turned and walked away, while they drove slowly toward the city.
I can only impute the young lady’s conduct to the grossest ignorance. I was not miserably clad, or any thing of that sort, and her reason for offering me the little contribution could only have been that I had lost a leg, and she no doubt thought it naturally followed that I was “needy.” A great mistake. The wealthiest man in the world would have lost his leg had he been standing where I was when I was shot.
Having spent a week at Cleveland, I departed for the smoky city of Pittsburg; where I arrived one evening at five o’clock. Before returning to Philadelphia, I desired to visit the celebrated “White Rocks,” near Uniontown, about seventy miles south of Pittsburg; and as no train was to leave for Uniontown till next morning, I was obliged to remain in Pittsburg all night—a thing I never do if I can help it, because I never spent a comfortable night in the smoky old place: nor do I believe any other civilized person ever did.
Before the train reached Pittsburg, I had given orders to a baggage-expressman to send my trunk to the St. Charles hotel, which had once been a first-class house, but which, without my knowledge, had of late degenerated to some extent. At the depot I got into a “bus” and rode to the St. Charles; when I saw at a glance that it had changed proprietors and was not conducted as of yore. It was in the hands of two or three brothers who were lineal descendants of the patriarch Abraham. One of them was acting as clerk. He was blustering about the office, like a rat that had got into a hot brick-kiln and couldn’t find its way out, giving orders to the porter, talking to several guests at once, and getting very little accomplished.
“Can I get a single room, to-night?” I asked.
“I ton’t knows,” he said, in the odious dialect of a Teutonic Jacobite, “I sees apout it pretty soons direcklies leetle whiles;” and he kept on talking with some body about nothing.
I stood by the counter for some minutes, entirely unnoticed by the contemptible fellow; and beginning to think that “pretty soons direcklies leetle whiles” had about expired, I said:
“My friend, my trunk will be here presently, and I would like to know if you can accommodate me with a room.”
“In vun meenutes,” he said. “We’s some fulls now, don’t knows.”
Had I not already ordered my trunk to this hotel, I would not have trifled there many seconds, but would have gone at once to another house. Wondering why he seemed so inattentive to me, I glanced at my apparel and was thereby reminded that I was not well dressed. I seldom wear good clothes during a journey of several hundred miles in a railroad car, for the smoke and dust will ruin a good suit of clothes in half that distance. I had on, for one thing, a military coat which I had worn considerably, and it immediately suggested an idea to me. I opened the register, with a commanding and dignified air, put on expressly for the occasion, took up a pen, examined it, found it very good, but dashed it impatiently down, as though not quite good enough for me, then took up another, found it good enough, dipped it savagely into the ink, and wrote:
“JOHN SMITH, Colonel U. S. A., New York.”
“There is my name,” said I, turning the book around, and pointing to what I had written. “Try to hunt up a single room for me, and put my trunk in it when it comes. My name is on it. There is my check for it. I am going out awhile.” And I gave him the check of the baggage-express agent.
The disgusting groveler glanced at my name, and fairly jumped from the floor: he was all obsequiousness in a moment.
“Certainly, Colonels,” he exclaimed, and I fancied he would have embraced me if the counter had not been between us, “I tends to it right aways.” And he immediately wrote the number of a room opposite my name. “Porters, see eef Colonels Schmidt’s drunks comes yet aready now. Ven it ish comes put it in Numbers Finf. We sees to it, Colonels. You says you goes out? Vell, you have suppers any times vat you vants it.”
All eyes were turned on me. Those present must have thought me a rather young-looking colonel. I have no doubt that a great many went to the register and examined my signature, after my back was turned. They were no doubt proud of the honor, too.
I walked out, and had just descended the steps of the hotel, when I ran against a young man who had a cane in his hand and walked a little lame.
“Excuse me,” I said.
“No harm done—” he began, then opened his eyes wide with surprise and interrupted himself with, “Why, John Smith! this you?”
It was “Chris.” Miller, whom I had known at Haddington Hospital, and he was walking on his artificial leg.
“Hollo! Miller, my boy! How do you do?” I exclaimed, as we shook hands.
“Fine,” he said.
“Do you live here?”
“Yes—or rather, in Alleghany City.”
“I am glad we have met. I stay at the St. Charles to-night. I hope you are not engaged.”
“No.”
“Then you must take supper with me. Come up a moment; then we will take a walk.”
I re-entered the hotel, accompanied by Miller, and opening the register again with the air of the owner, I wrote immediately under my name:
“MAJOR C. MILLER, Pittsburg Arsenal.”
“Major Miller,” said I, addressing the clerk, “will take supper with me.”
“All right, Colonels,” was the obsequious reply; “any times you blease.”
Miller and I walked out for a stroll, and I explained to him, somewhat to his amusement, my reason for adopting those high-sounding military titles. We then stopped at the first respectable saloon, and took a hearty lemonade, with a powerful “stick” in it—dispensing with the lemons, water and sugar.
We soon returned, and, after supper at the hotel, walked out for another stroll about the city. At ten o’clock we parted, and I returned to the hotel, ready to retire.
“Colonels,” said the clerk, “you drunks comes. We puts him in ze rooms for you.”
“Very well; I will retire,” I said. “See that I am awakened in time for the seven-o’clock train for Uniontown.”
“Certainly, Colonels; we tends to dat. You vants to go to pet? I shows you de rooms.”
He went with me to a double-bedded room on the first floor, where I found my trunk, (with a fresh dent in it,) and lighting the gas for me, and leaving the key in the door, he bade me a humble good night, as, with a cringing bow, he retired from my military presence.
It was after one o’clock before the mosquitoes consented to my going asleep, and I had not been asleep long, when thump, thump, knock, knock, knock, went some one at my door, breaking upon my slumbers most unpleasantly. They wanted to put another man in my room, and, as I did not concur in the arrangement, I lay still and let them pound at the door till their knuckles were sore. At last I heard some one say:
“There’s no waking that fellow.”
Presently a hurried footstep approached, and the well-known voice of the clerk who had assigned me my room, exclaimed excitedly:
“Vat you does dere? Dat’s de Colonels! Mein Gott!”
And I was left in peaceable and untrammeled possession of the room.
I was awakened in due time in the morning; and, putting my rusty-looking clothes into my trunk and donning a more respectable suit, I came down to breakfast, and received such marked attention that I began to fancy myself a major-general, instead of a mere colonel. Immediately after breakfast, I paid my bill—($5.25)—found a carriage awaiting me at the door; and, having been bidden an affectionate adieu by the proprietors, three or four times, I rode to the depot.
I have not recorded this incident for the purpose of injuring the St. Charles Hotel; as it has since changed proprietors, and is now conducted in a creditable manner.
If you want to get along smoothly and comfortably while traveling, do not fail to make the clerks and proprietors of hotels believe you are something more than mortal: if you don’t, you will find rough sailing. A very good plan is to knock down a porter or waiter now and then, by way of preserving your dignity. You will find it profitable. Also, threaten to shoot the proprietor, occasionally, when you have a shadow of a pretext: that will never fail to establish your importance. Above all, I enjoin you to register yourself as a senator, governor or military officer.