A friend of mine told me the other night that I had made a mistake. I told him there was nothing new in that, as I, like every other man, was liable to make mistakes. “But I mean you have made a mistake in your reminiscences.” Then I fired up, for if there is anythin’ that I am careful about it is to get all the “points” of my reminiscences “solid.” But my friend insisted for all that, that it wasn’t Frank Buell who had got up that joke of whitewashin’ the City Hall, but Mike Walsh. Yet I feel confident it was Frank Boole, though Mike Walsh was a confirmed “practical joker,” just as much given to that complaint as John McBride Davidson was in later years.
Mike always kept himself posted about anythin’ that was goin’ on around New York, and at one time he took part in the mania for flowers–the botanical fever–that all of a sudden pervaded the city. It was proposed to have a big botanical garden, and all sorts of rare and curious plants were to be planted therein. Mike pretended to take great interest in this idea, and said he intended to do all in his power to further such a poetical and praiseworthy project. So he wrote up the garden idea in one of the papers he was connected with, and he talked it up, and at last he contributed to it practically, not merely in money, but in what was more just then than money–i.e. a real botanical curiosity.
About this time florists and flower-fanciers were talkin’ a good deal about the cactus, and all sorts of yarns were told about the wonderful properties of this flower. Mike always listened when the cactus was talked about, and finally one day he presented to those havin’ the garden in control a most astonishingly rare specimen of the cactus–a Japanese variety, sent to Mike as a present from an old friend who had been years in Japan. It was an amazin’ sort of a flower, amazin’ly small for one thing. It was contained in a large box, its root being pretty extensive, considerably larger than the plant itself, which struck out only a few inches from the box, and was about the size and thickness of–well, a rat’s tail would come nearest to it.
It was really an ugly-lookin’ object, but certainly a very odd flower, and what was oddest about it was that it would bloom into a beautiful red flower at the tip or extremity. It required a good deal of care to keep alive; it would have to be watered carefully; it would have to be watched and tended just like a baby; it would have to be preserved from the cold, and as well from the heat (heat, in fact, was worse for it than the cold); there was no end of the trouble it would be likely to give, but it would repay it all, for in a few weeks it would expand into a lovely red, surpassin’ the beauty of the rose, and, above all, it was the only specimen of the plant to be found throughout the United States of America. After all, that was the main point which rendered it the most valuable plant in the whole botanical collection. The thanks of the authorities were voted to Mr. Mike Walsh, who accepted them as his due, and a special gardener was appointed to watch the flowerin’ of this plant. This gardener was an Irishman, and very conscientious; he had been appointed special gardener at the suggestion of Mike, and was, like most of his countrymen, very grateful, ready to do anything for Mike or the flower. The plant had been dubbed by the people generally “the rat-tailed cactus,” from its peculiar look, though a scientific gentleman who had examined it, and had written a newspaper article on it, had given it a long Latin or Greek name of seven syllables, and had proved that the plant had been in full bloom in Japan at least three thousand years before the date of the book of Genesis, showin’, of course, as the scientific gentleman said, how silly the story told by Moses about the creation of the world really was.
Well, the special gardener watched the plant day and night, and Mike shared his labors and his cares. You see, this Japanese cactus was very regular in its habits, and had to be watered once every three hours throughout the whole twenty-four. It had to be watered in a certain way, too. Not sprinkled merely; not saturated or soaked; the water couldn’t be dashed on roughly. No; all this would have been fatal. The water had to be dropped on the plant just around its root and just around its tip–a very few drops at a time.
A great many people got interested watchin’ the waterin’ of this plant, and several times some pretty ladies tried their hands at it, which put the Irishman in charge in quite a delicate difficulty. He didn’t want to be disobligin’ to the ladies–what Irishman can refuse a woman anythin?–but, on the other hand, he felt perfectly certain nobody could do justice to this flower but himself. So out of pity to the poor fellow a notice was posted up right over the plant, requesting all “ladies and gentlemen ” to refrain from touchin’ or waterin’ or in any way interferin’ with the bloomin’ of this most extraordinary plant.
This notice had perhaps somethin’ to do with keeping the public from botherin’ the plant, but there was somethin’ else connected with the plant which kept people from botherin’ it, and this was the extraordinary smell of this most extraordinary plant. This Japanese cactus had a most peculiar odor. Its effluvia was intense; in other words, it smelt like the devil, and the nearer the time came for its bloomin’, the more it stunk.
Everybody noticed this odor–everybody but Mike Walsh himself. He didn’t pay the slightest attention to it. When somebody asked him about the horrible smell he was greatly astonished, and sniffin’ about, said he didn’t smell anythin’. But then, as he said afterwards, he stuck somethin’ in his nose whenever he came near the plant, to “deaden the smell.”
Well, findin’ Mr. Michael Walsh didn’t smell anythin’, the grateful Irish gardener, takin’ his cue from his patron, didn’t smell anythin’ either; in fact, he thought it his duty to go further than his patron, and he even told somebody (the Lord forgive him for lyin’) that he liked the smell. He really liked it so much that every time he approached the plant to water it he held his hand to his nose–whenever Mike Walsh wasn’t around. But then, as he told the spectators, he had a cold in his head.
The manager of the garden sent for the scientific gentleman who had stated that this style of Japanese Cactus was three thousand years older than the world, and asked him if this odor was a necessary part of the plant. On this point the scientific gentleman couldn’t say for certain, but he was certain that if it was, it was indeed a most disagreeable necessity.
At last the managers of the garden voted the Japanese cactus a nuisance, and determined to suppress it without the assistance of the Mayor or the State Legislature. True, Mike Walsh assured ‘em that in a few days more it would begin to bloom, and the lovely red flower would be the talk of the town. But the managers declared they wouldn’t stand any more of this odor, not to see fifty red flowers.
Besides, the managers by this time began to suspect Mike Walsh of some “gag” or “job,” and they were getting very shy about the promised red flower business. So one day they quietly sent the Irishman away for an hour or two; and takin’ advantage of a time when nobody was around but ‘emselves, they took hold of the box, and holdin’ their noses as well as the box, they pulled out this most extraordinary plant by its roots–or rather its body. For the plant wasn’t a live plant, but a dead animal. It was a huge rat, which Mike Walsh had found in his areaway one day, and had boxed up and passed off for a Japanese cactus.
Spite of the bother that they had been to, and the stench and they were in, the managers of the garden, for the life of ‘em couldn’t help laughin’ at the sell, and Mike Walsh himself happenin’ in just then, all hands had a jolly good time. Mike standin’ the wine and promisin’ not to give away the sell to the papers, as the managers did not want to render ‘emselves and their schemes ridiculous.
But the joke, like the plant, was too good, or too bad, to keep, and it soon transpired, and put an end to the bright hopes of the botanical garden.
The sickest man of the whole caboodle was the scientific man who had given this most extraordinary “plant” a most extraordinary name and had talked a lot of uncommonly learned rubbish about a common dead rat. He left town for some time just after the joke got round, and he never gave names to any more flowers without first making sure of the flowers.
Another practical joke of Mike Walsh’s occurred at Tom Ryan’s saloon, corner of Broadway and Park place, when Mike Walsh and Tom Ryan were both in their prime.
Mike had just been takin’ a drink at Ryan’s place, and had found there lots of old sports, who had been just then lamentin’ that nothin’ particularly lively had turned up lately, and that things around the Park and City Hall were gettin’ kind of dull. It hadn’t struck Mike so before, but somehow this mornin’ it occurred to Mike as he came out of the bar-room that things did need livenin’ up a bit, and he kept lookin’ round for some chance to do it.
All at once a man, a big, burly fellow, stepped up to Mike on Broadway and asked if he couldn’t give him, not money, but some way to earn it; not alms, but work. In short, he asked Mike for “a job.” Mike at once “put up a job” on the poor fellow, and said to him, “You see that saloon of mine there?” pointin’ to Ryan’s place. “Yes, I see it, your honor,” answered the man. “Well,” continued Mike, “we had a rousin’ time there last night” (it was now about noon), “and we haven’t quite got over it yet. The place wants fixin’ up and tidyin’ and settin’ to rights generally. Will you undertake to do it?” “Of course I will, your honor,” said the man, who would have undertaken just then anythin’ or anybod’. “All right,” says Mike; “sail in. Go in right now and go behind the bar and wash all the glasses, and tidy things up. I have got a little barkeeper who is a cross-grained sort of a chap. But don’t mind him. I want him to get some rest anyway. The fellow is working himself to death. He hasn’t slept a wink for these three nights, so no wonder he’s cross; but don’t mind him. He don’t like to see anybody doin’ what he thinks his work, he is so conscientious, and he won’t like at first my notion of sendin’ you to help him; but I don’t want to let him drop down dead from overwork, even if he’s willin’ to. So sail in, and don’t mind anythin’ he says or does. You understand?”
“I do, your honor,” said the man. “I won’t pay any more attention to him then if he never existed.”
“All right, then. Go in and begin your fine work at once,” said Mike, “and I will be back in about an hour to see how you are gettin’ on.”
So Mike started off, and the man he had just engaged started off too. Mike to tell some of the boys around the City Hall of the fun to be expected at Ryan’s saloon and the man to “tidy things up” and to “don’t mind the little barkeeper.”
Now, this “little barkeeper” of Tom Ryan’s was quite a character in his way. He was a natty little chap, always looked as if he came out of a bandbox, and hated common people and dirt worse than a politician hates “rotation in office” if he happens to be in office himself. He was particularly neat and particular about the looks of his “bar,” and couldn’t bear to have anybody handlin’ any of his things. Above all, he was very full of his own self-importance, loved to be consulted about everythin’, and never forgave anybody that put a slight on him or interfered with him. Of course Mike Walsh knew all these little peculiarities of his like a book, and so he could imagine how disgusted the little barkeeper would be to see a dirty, common street tramp goin’ coolly behind his own bar, circusin’ among his fixin’s and ignorin’ him altogether.
“I guess things will be lively enough in that saloon shortly, to please the boys,” said Mike, and he was correct.
Things were so lively that before Mike and his friends (everybody he met and could tell the joke to) could get to Tom Ryan’s place, the circus was in full blast, and there was a big man who was bein’ used to “wipe the floor with” by a mad little barkeeper, who had a terrific bunch of fives and knew what to do with ‘em.
According to instructions, the stranger had walked into Ryan’s saloon, and without a word had walked behind the bar. The little barkeeper looked at him in speechless wonder. Then the stranger began to fumble round with the glasses and things, and then “the little barkeeper” went for the stranger. The barkeeper was strong, though small, and a magnificent boxer. The stranger was nowhere, and although “he didn’t mind” the barkeeper, the little barkeeper minded him. The barkeeper bounced the stranger, mauled the stranger, and gave the stranger a black eye, and knocked him down, and trampled on him, and slung him around the floor, till Mike, who with his “gang” had just entered, was obliged to beg for the poor tramp’s life. For the little barkeeper’s blood was up, and he was now ready for a whole day’s work, but Mike coaxed him to let up on the poor tramp, whose wounds he healed with a five dollar bill, and it was several days before Mike let the little barkeeper know “what on earth was the matter with that snoozer I licked.”
[Editor’s notes: At the risk of “firing up” Harry’s ghost (and those of his ghost writers), his columns are riddled with mistakes and fictions. The column above is based on an anecdote about Mike Walsh that first appeared in the New York Leader in 1860, a year after Walsh’s death.
There is, surprisingly, a family of plants known as Rattail Cactuses.
The setting of the garden is not New York (which was considering a botanical garden in the plans for Central Park, in the 1850s, that was not realized until decades later), but instead was Washington, DC.:
