TIM THE DISSIPATED

Very late in the year 1848—Christmas day, to be exact—I found myself in New Orleans, bankrupt in health and looking forward, hopelessly, to a seemingly not far off culmination of my earthly affairs. But, owing to the possession of a strong constitution, the good offices of kind friends, and careful medical treatment, I was enabled to disappoint the prophets and to evade the undertaker. By the time I had regained my feet, the balmy days of March had come around, and I 92 improved the opportunity to make my duty-calls upon the kind-hearted friends who had taken an active interest in the welfare of a stranger who had been cast upon their shores. I found them wonderfully to my liking, generous, cordial, and frank, to a degree I had never dreamed of.

It was fortunate for me that I happened to become a denizen of that interesting old city during one of its better periods. Socially it was at high-water mark; the theatres were good and the French opera the better of all outside of Paris. In the winter it was the rendezvous for the well-to-do families of the whole far South. The rich cotton planters from Tennessee, Mississippi, and Alabama, and the sugar planters from along the “coast” came to this Southern metropolis, and brought with them their pretty daughters with their velvety voices, unaffected speech, garnished 93 with its tint of African accent, and their frank, disingenuous ways; and also came their sons, who were not so fascinating, but were good fellows at heart—the majority of them—and, as a rule, save for one weakness, they were all right. But they had the unpleasant habit of “drawing at sight,” and to the credit of their alertness, I am compelled to record that they were apt to see very quick.

The presence of a large colony of well-to-do planters assisted to make New Orleans a very attractive winter resort. But they were not more given to pleasure than the average citizen of the place, who, as a rule, did not take life very seriously. He was in business, but not its slave, and each day brought with it its pleasurable recreation. With their peculiar and novel ways they were, to me, a revelation; the community made up of them 94 seemed almost ideal, and had it not been for the presence of the slave and the slave market, the old French city, in its relation to a certain select few, could have passed for a kind of brick and mortar Arcadia.

Among the favorite recreations of that period was a drive down the shell road to Lake Ponchartrain, where there was a famous afternoon resort kept by Capt. Dan Hicox, a once famous “Captain on the Lakes,” a teller of good stories and fabricator of the best fish and game dinners and suppers to be found in the whole South. To say that his establishment was popular would give but a faint idea of the real conditions. Of a pleasant afternoon, in certain seasons of the year, nearly all that was jolliest and brightest in New Orleans society could be found sitting upon the captain’s piazzas, enjoying the breezes of the lake, which were usually tempered 95 with something taken through a straw or drawn from the upper end of a bottle recently from the ice-chest.

In addition to the usual attractions of such a resort, there was a circular pen with a pole planted in the centre of it to which was attached a certain two-thirds grown specimen of the common American black bear. When the merest mite of a cub he had been captured in the wilds of Michigan, and afterwards sent to “Captain Dan” as a present by one of his old friends of the lakes.

“Tim” was a great pet and altogether comical. He found a comic side to every incident which came under his observation, and, seemingly, never had a serious thought or an unhappy moment. It might be said of him that he was reared in luxury, for during his infancy he had a pleasant corner of the bar-room for his abode, where he became the pet of the patrons and the 96 recipient of all kinds of good things from the larder, with now and then a taste from the bottle arranged in a way to fit his appetite, and very much to his liking.

In the interests of truthful history, it must be recorded that “Tim,” within a short time after his first julep, became enamored of the bottle, and, very much after the manner of the old style Southern bar-room tippler, would watch the patrons of the bar, looking wistfully into their faces for an invitation to “smile.” At the beginning of his career as an habitual drinker, it took about six or seven “treats” to put him in a state of good-natured inebriation. When in that condition, he was the incarnation of animal happiness; lying upon his back with all four feet in the air, head to one side, tongue half out of his wide-open mouth, with eyes half closed, he was the perfect personification of good nature and indifference 97 to earthly happenings. Kings might rule the world, but Tim’s happiness was supreme. He envied no other bear, and if a tree trunk filled with the most delicious honey had been within easy reach he would not have raised a paw for a barrel of it. The things of this world troubled him not, and he possessed only one phase of the great passion of avarice—he always, when sober, wanted enough strong drink to make him happy. He had the appetite of the habitual human drunkard, but, when in his cups, differed from his human confrère in one important particular; he was good natured and kind and never quarrelsome or cruel like the human brute in a similar condition.

Sometimes, when he was floored, a friend would try to coax him to another drink by temptingly placing a well-filled glass near his nose, an invitation that would generally excite in him an 98 effort to rise and a very comical and unsteady attempt to follow the lead of the disappearing glass; usually he would wobble over, but would right himself enough to sit up and gaze intently after the fascinating beverage beyond his reach. In respect to demeanor or quantity, he was quite human; he never knew he was making a beast of himself, or when he had enough. I do not pretend to say that Tim’s habits of drink were not reprehensible; for the purposes of this true story he must have the blame. It was certainly not the fault of his master; he simply suffered the usual penalty of having too many thoughtless and convivial friends.

In course of time, Tim became quite a bear, altogether too large for a bar-room pet, and was removed to a specially prepared pen and chained to a pole with a platform rest at the top. 99 The change for Tim was not a success. He spent his time in running around and climbing up and down his pole, all the time whining, pleading, and scolding; he grew thin, and looked and acted as though he regarded life as a failure. Occasionally, a friend, pitying his unhappy condition, would unchain him and lead him to his old haunt. In fact, it was nearly impossible to lead him in any other direction. As soon as released from his pole he would start for the bar-room, dragging his friend with him, nor would he stop until he reached his favorite room, when, standing up with his hands on the counter, he would mumble out in his most intelligible bear-language a peremptory demand for a drink. Sometimes he was indulged to an extent which would enable him to catch a glimpse of his lost paradise, but usually he was returned to his pen after having disposed 100 of only enough of his favorite beverage to give him an appetite for more.

It had often been suggested that if Tim could have a congenial occupation his grief for his lost liberty would not be so acute. Accidentally, an employment for all his spare time was forced upon him.

One day, during a great thunderstorm, when the wind was blowing strong from the east, a small alligator, about six feet long, was carried by a wave to a part of the piazza near where I was sitting. He undertook to get back into the lake with the receding water, but, being determined to detain him, I caught him by the end of the tail. Within half of a second the problem of extremes meeting was solved. As soon as he felt my hold he doubled himself around, brought his jaws to-together with a savage snap, and came 101 within an infinitesimal measure of catching my hand. By that time my blood was up, and I made up my mind to effect a capture of my belligerent caller. With the use of a strong chair for a weapon, I succeeded in preventing his return to the lake. Soon assistance with a rope arrived, and a tight-drawn noose around the upper jaw did the rest. “De ’gater swished dat tail a’ his awfully Massa, but we done got him sure,” was the announcement that conveyed to “Captain Dan” the information that he was the owner of a “’gater.” Our captive was put in a safe place for the night, and the next morning what to do with him became the burning question.

After considerable discussion a valuable suggestion came from one of the colored spectators. He said: “I reckon if dat ’gater and Tim had a chance dey’d make fust-rate frens inside a 102 week.” A unanimous vote approved of the proposition, and in five minutes “de ’gater was in de pen” and the gate closed.

It was Tim’s custom whenever he heard company approaching his place of abode to meet them at the threshold. Upon this occasion, as usual, he was ready to bestow the hospitalities of his establishment, but the manner of his receiving was neither urbane nor graceful. His front door was suddenly opened and an unwelcome guest unceremoniously thrust upon the hospitality of the unsuspecting Tim, who was wholly unprepared for such a visitor. It was his first experience with a Saurian. He had never seen one before, and it took only a second for him to make up his mind to pass the act of non-intercourse. He scampered to his pole and climbed to his platform at the top, where, during the next twenty-four 103 hours, he remained an anxious and frightened observer.

The new arrangement was no more satisfactory to the guest than to the host. He missed his shore promenades and bathing accommodations; could not imagine why he was shut up in a small enclosure, and spent his first day and night in searching for an opening large enough for him to crawl through. By noon of his second day of confinement he gave up his fruitless search and settled down to a midday repose.

Tim, weary with anxious watching, seeing his opportunity for an investigation, cautiously descended to the ground, and noiselessly approached near enough to his guest to reach him with a front paw; then, for several minutes, he sat upon his haunches and made a very careful diagnosis of the case before him and came to the conclusion that it was not to his liking, and that he would 104 have no more of it than he could help. Acting upon this deliberately formed conclusion, he made a vicious grab with both paws at the tail of the unsuspecting Saurian. Great was his surprise to find that his victim was very wide awake, indeed, for no sooner had he felt the disturbance at his caudal end than he sent his open jaws around to ascertain the cause. This sudden flank movement was a great surprise to Tim, who experienced considerable difficulty in extracting one of his paws from the ample jaws of a “feller” that at least one bear could not understand. Tim was not encouraged to another investigation at the moment, but re-ascended to his throne, where he spent the remainder of the day in licking the wounded paw, casting, now and then, malicious glances at his unbidden guest, and concocting plans for the future.

The next day was bright and sunny, 105 and brought with it apparent peace to the domain of Tim. The Saurian was calmly reposing in the sunshine, and Tim was doing his best thinking. He had not quite decided as to the manner of proceeding, but upon one point he had made up his mind. There was to be no middle way. His enemy was to be conquered and the savage attack upon his paw avenged. With his mind then fully made up he descended for a second investigation and another possible attack. This time his approach was doubly guarded, and he was particularly careful in calculating the distance between his position and the jaws which had given him such an unpleasant surprise.

After a deliberate survey of the situation, Tim made a sudden spring to the side of his enemy, caught him under his chest, and turned him upon his back. This side attack was unexpected 106 and a perfect success, and the reptile had an active and prolonged struggle to regain his natural position. Tim watched the struggle with intense interest, seeming to be happy in knowing that he held the key to the situation. From that time on, his guest during the daylight hours had no peace. Whenever Tim had an opportunity, he turned him over, and, when not engaged in that diversion, he was chasing him around the enclosure. About one month of such an existence brought the Saurian very near to his end. From a most healthy and vigorous “’gater” at the time he was caught he had become weak, weary and lank; so forlorn was his lamentable condition that he excited the sympathy of some human friend, who, during the night, opened the gate to the pen. The following morning the persecuted reptile was nowhere to be found. From that moment 107 Tim became his former self, watched anxiously at the gate for the coming of friends, and pleaded pertinaciously for the intoxicating beverage.

The summer and greater part of the autumn after the “’gater” incident, I spent at the Mississippi Springs, and, while there, received a letter from a friend, who, next to myself, was the most ardent admirer Tim ever had. It was the last word relating to my comical four-footed intimate, and I cannot close this truthful narration more appropriately than by quoting from it:

“You will sympathize with me in our mutual loss. Probably, we have seen the last of our old friend Tim; he departed from his well scratched pole about two weeks ago, and is now on the road as an important item in ‘The Most Colossal Show Ever Known.’ He had grown so large, and his appetite for strong drink had increased to 108 such an alarming extent, that the attending darkies lost confidence in their ability to handle him. During his later days at the Lake, he appeared to have but one idea, and that related to opportunities for intoxication. Whenever his pen door opened, no matter for what purpose, he would make a rush for whoever came in, and demand to be led to the bar-room, and, if disappointed, would make a most furious demonstration.

“‘Captain Dan’ was immensely attached to him, but felt that the time had arrived when some disposition must be made of him. The menagerie at Algiers was the opportunity. A bargain was struck, and the time fixed for his departure.

“‘Captain Dan’ decided to give him a regular ‘Fourth of July’ send-off, and, to that end, invited a few of his most intimate friends and admirers to be 109 present at the performance. The guests were assembled, and Tim was released from his pole. He made a tremendous rush for the open bar-room door dragging two stalwart Africans after him at a break-neck pace. He went direct to his old corner where he found a large tin pan filled with a milk-punch such as he had never tasted before. He emptied it in short order and then, taking it between his paws, sat up, licked the last reminiscence of the punch out of it, and in a few moments became the most comical object imaginable. In fact he was never known to be more funny. He was laughed at, poked with sticks, had his ears pulled, but all to no purpose; he was too happy to be offended. He made a few efforts to stand erect and to appear sober and dignified, but ended each attempt by rolling over upon his back a helpless lump of limp intoxication.
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“In that condition, our old friend was bundled into a box on wheels, and made ready for his departure to the new life. Before going we all shook him by the paw, patted his head, and wished him a happy future, and, as he disappeared in the distance, there was a general expression of regret that we had seen the last of poor Tim. ‘Captain Dan’s’ lip trembled, and I feel sure if he had had it to do over again, he wouldn’t have done it.”

This parting with Tim proved to be the end of his connection with the friends of his babyhood and youth: none of them so far as I know, ever saw him again.

Possibly a little bit of a lesson may be shown from the simple life described. Tim, no doubt, came of decent parents of good habits and morals, and in his downfall, there was no question of heredity involved. In his infancy 111 he was placed within easy reach of the temptations of the bowl, and so, in his manhood, became as much of a victim to strong drink as his surrounding circumstances would permit. Therefore, the inference is, if he had not been tempted, there would have been no fall, and Tim would have led a sober life and have been a respectable member of bear society, provided human beings had left him in the home intended for his race.

His degradation, like that of the North American Indian, came from contact with our superior Western civilization.