The Bear Meat Prank Leads to the Five Pound Court [published Nov. 22, 1885]

      The approach of Thanksgiving reminds me of a practical Thanksgiving Day joke which created a profound sensation in the Ninth Ward–old Greenwich Village–about forty years ago, and which is still remembered by many “old-time” boss butchers.

      The butchers of the old Ninth Ward were locally famous not only for their good meat, but their “good times,” their skylarkin’ and their practical jokes and pranks.

      The butcher boys or ‘prentices, congregated around the foot of Christopher street, were the youthful terrors of “the village” and were in awe of one only set of created bein’s–their masters, who, in their turn, were in awe of only their Maker, certainly of no man on earth. The boss butchers were the men of mark in New York, “solid” men in every sense, and goin’ to church every Sunday and payin’ their debts during the week, felt ‘emselves entitled to fun when they could get it, and didn’t care much at whose expense they got it either.

      Dan Hyatt and Josh Amquarue, “Josh and Dan” as everybody called ‘em, bein’ great cronies and always together, were two big boss butchers in those days, sleek, prosperous, popular and generally peaceful, except when they went on a periodical “tare.” Then they made Greenwich Village howl and gave a lurid hue to Greenwich Market. They were unlike the majority of boss butchers, bachelors, and so had no “women folk” to take them to task. Unconsciously they served a moral purpose, the good women of the neighborhood holdin’ them up in their sprees as a frightful example to their own “hubbies.”

      But drunk or sober Josh and Dan were always ready for a practical joke, for sellin’ somebody, and one time they “sold” a good part of Greenwich Village. In those days bears were not as rare as they are to-day around New York City. There were woods then not far from the metropolis, and these woods contained bears. And bear’s meat was considered prime eatin’. In fact, the housewives and husbands and fathers of Greenwich Village preferred bear’s meat to turkey. And around Thanksgivin’ Day if a family was lucky enough to lay in a supply of bear’s meat its larder was regarded with envy by those less fortunate. As for swappin’ bear’s meat for double or triple its weight in turkey meat, it wasn’t to be thought of.

      This bein’ the case a good many countrymen devoted their time and powder to catchin’ bears for the New York market. One old rustic hunter, a sort of Leatherstockin’, called Ralph, lived altogether by scourin’ the Highlands and banks of the Hudson and bringin’ down the bears. This Ralph brought his bears to town in person and was as well-known around Greenwich Village as Josh or Dan. Ralph was a simple sort of chap, outside his “bear shootin’,” and was a prime favorite with the children and the females; with the children on account of the yarns he told ‘em of huntin’ and adventure, and with the females because he would often make ‘em little presents of bear’s grease, which was then regarded not only as a sort of household medicine and “stand-by,” but also as the best of cosmetics, helpin’ a Greenwich Village girl in “makin’ up her complexion” by the aid of bear’s grease, while the young fellows smoothed down their hair with it. Altogether, the arrival of Ralph, or of a bear, was a big event in Greenwich Village.

      Well, one evenin’, a few days before Thanksgivin’ (which was then not so generally observed as now, however), Josh and Dan had been drinkin’ at Sam Leow’s tavern, near the foot of Christopher street, and had then conceived the idea of takin’ a walk to kind of set ‘em up all right before goin’ to bed. It was a lovely, moonlit night, but quite cold. So, spite of the beauty of the time, the streets and lanes (most of the streets then were really only country lanes, after all said and done) were deserted. The pair had Greenwich Village to ‘emselves, and suddenly they stumbled over somethin’ lyin’ in a lane–a living somethin’–asleep. A grunt from the somethin’ told the wanderers what it was. They had stumbled over a first-class hog–an enormously big and fat sow–the fattest and biggest animal of that species they had ever seen. All this they found out after they had tumbled, one after the other, over the sow, had picked ‘emselves up and had investigated the cause of “the disturbance.” Josh and Dan looked at the monster porker, then they looked at each other. “Why, she’s as big as a bear,” said Josh to Dan. “Humph! a bear!” repeated Dan to Josh, with a meanin’ emphasis on the last word.

      Josh looked at Dan once more. Dan looked at Josh with new force. Then they both looked with new force at the huge porker, and they both got the idea of the joke. Yes, they would take this sow, pass her off for a bear, sell her meat for bear’s meat, and “sell” the village. There couldn’t be a better joke or a better time, just before Thanksgivin’! What a lot of fun they would have, and what a lot of families would buy sow’s meat for bear’s meat for their Thanksgivin’ dinner. “Here was richness,” and neither Josh nor Dan went to sleep that night. The sight of that big sow and the thought of that big joke did for ‘em what no big walk then could have done–sobered ‘em completely. Their joke needed ‘em to have all their wits about ‘em. For in the first place they had to get the porker into a place where they could operate on her, i.e. kill her, and that couldn’t be done then and there. The pig had to be driven to some slaughter-house, and driven there at once, before the butchers and butcher boys turned out in the early dawn. Now, drivin’ a pig Is an easy thing to talk or write about, but a deuced hard thing to do, especially when you undertake to drive a pig rapidly in any one direction, and especially such a big, fat pig as this one.

      The pair of jokers had their hands and legs full in drivin’ this pig, particularly as they couldn’t be rough with her, for fear of makin’ her “squeal,” in which case some old constable or “leatherhead” might pounce upon ‘em, and take the stray porker to the pound, as well as take the point out of their joke.

      With infinite difficulty, workin’ harder, for fun, all night, than they would have worked for money all day, Josh and Dan at last managed to get that pig into a slaughter-house, at that hour deserted. And then another and unpleasant portion of the “joke” began. They had to kill the hog without the usual material conveniences for slaughterin’–killing under difficulties–and in their nice clothes, too, instead of their old slaughter-house suits and aprons. But between ‘em, and in a bunglin’ sort of way, they managed, without makin’ too much of a row, to kill the porker by the light of the moon and to dress the carcass, after a fashion, before daybreak. They cut off the head, got rid of every porcine peculiarity, and worked like artistic beavers and murderers to get the sow’s carcass to resemble a bear’s. Then they dragged the dressed bear (!) from the slaughter-house to their own stalls and stowed it away there just a little while before the butchers’ boys came into the market. Then the two wags went chucklin’ to their homes, slept an hour or two and then got at their joke again.

      The next step was to flood the village with announcements of the prize (!), notices of the new found bear. A printer, a friend of Dan’s struck off a lot of handbills, the wordin’ of which was purposely made “bare meat” instead of “bear’s meat.” The people who read the handbills merely smiled at what they thought an unintentional mistake in the spellin’ of the word, but Dan and Josh had a point in their mis-spellin’.

      These handbills made, as Dan and Josh had calculated they would, a big stir. Everybody wanted to get some of the “bare” for Thanksgivin’. It was announced to be exposed, ready for sale, on the day after, and havin’ durin’ the next night, got out their carcass, Dan and Josh hung it up at their joint stall in the market and got up a cock-and-bull story about how they had procured the “bare,” which they claimed to be one of “Ralph’s” finest captures. It did really look very fine, and by noon there wasn’t a bit of that bear or “bare” to be had for love or money. As high as three shillin’s a pound was paid for it (when you could get fat pork all over for sixpence). It was indeed a stupendous “sell.” And what a time the housewives had in gettin’ ready their “bear steaks” for Thanksgivin’, and how each householder and head of a family who had got a bear steak crowed over the poor devil who hadn’t got one, and how the young girls of Greenwich Village reveled in the prospects of pomatum, and how Dan and Josh nearly split with laughter as they “took in” everythin’, as well as everybody, and saw the signs of their successful joke on every side.

      Dan and Josh’s glee was specially increased by the fact that they had taken particular care to humbug a lot of the prominent people of the locality, and best of all, old Sol Kipp, of the stage line, who above all things, detested a practical joke.

      For a while Dan and Josh were in the seventh heaven of delight, but they got “ballyhoo” before long, for after the Thanksgivin’ dinner the people tumbled to the fact that somebody had sold ‘em. You may dress pig’s meat like bear’s meat, and you may cook it for bear’s meat, but you can’t well eat pig’s meat for bear’s meat without findin’ out the difference. And then there was an explosion of wrath that, had it been powder, would have blown Greenwich Village off the face of the earth and not left an atom of Dan and Josh.

      The sell was of course soon traced to Josh and Dan, and when they were found out, the pair owned up and pretended to think it was all a good joke, and nothing else. But old Sol Kipp, for one, thought it was a good deal more than a joke, then raised a whirlwind about it, and went to law–yes, to law–for both Josh and Dan had unintentionally exposed ‘emselves to the pains and penalties of swindlin’–a swindle which had made people pay three shillin’s a pound for what, had they known what they were really buyin’, they wouldn’t have paid sixpence, and they wouldn’t have wanted it even at that figure. The practical jokers had, as practical jokers often do, got ‘emselves into a scrape, and had to get out of it as best they could.

      They made a public offer to refund to anybody who demanded it the money they had paid for the bogus “bear’s” meat, and about one third of those that they had “sold” got even with them that way, by gettin’ their money back and their Thanksgivin’ dinner for nothin’. But Kipp and several others wouldn’t have their money back, but wanted “the law on ‘em” and so, amid a deal more excitement than they had originally calculated on, Josh and Dan were tried in what was called “a five pound court” in the “old watch-house.” They were tried before two magistrates, one of them a jolly chap and a great friend of Josh and Dan, the other a very severe and sedate chap, both of whom had eaten some of the defendants’ “bear steaks” for their Thanksgivin’ dinner. A peculiarity of this “celebrated case” (for it was for many a year famous in the annals and memories of Greenwich Village and old New Yorkers) was that almost all the officials and spectators could have served as witnesses, for almost all of ‘em had bought and eaten of that bogus bear.

      Some of the lawyers interested in the trial tried to make it appear a mere jest; others tried to make it seem a very grievous thing indeed. One of the two joker’s counsels presented an elaborate argument that there was no deception practice by his clients, as they had publicly announced only “bare meat” and it was “bare” (hog’s) meat.

      And so altogether the jury kind of got mixed up and couldn’t agree on a verdict. This made the jolly judge who had eaten the bogus bear smile, but it made the other serious judge with the bogus bear steak in him, mad. So the latter ordered the jury to be locked up all night till they did agree, without anythin’ to eat in the garret of the old watch-house, with constables posted on the stairs to prevent any kind of eatin’, or drinkin’, or smokin’, or communicatin’ with the outside world. This made the jury madder than the judge, and most of ‘em began to think that the great “bear-sow” joke was gettin’ indeed to be no laughin’ matter.

      It so happened that the lower part of the old watch-house was then occupied as an engine house by old Engine 34, known all the town over and the idol of Greenwich Village, as “The Red Rover.” Now, the Red Rovers were most of ‘em “night owls,” keepin’ very late hours, bein’ privileged characters, and makin’ old 34 serve as the cover for many a jamboree. Well, on the particular night that the jury in the celebrated case were locked up in the garret, one solitary Red Rover was sittin’ in the engine house wishin’ to gracious he had the price of a drink or a cigar in his clothes just then. Suddenly he heard somethin’ knock against the ground, just outside the engine house door. Then the somethin’ knocked again and again. Goin’ out to see what was the matter, the astonished Red Rover saw a stone tied by a string goin’ up in the air and then comin’ down, making a fourth strike. He seized the string, saw that a piece of paper was tied to the stone and seized the paper. Openin’, he found a two dollar bill and a note from the foreman of the jury, a man he knew very well, statin’, in terse but elegant phrase, the hungry, and above all, the thirsty, condition of the jury up in their dismal garret, just above, and askin’ in heaven’s name, whoever might receive the note to take the money enclosed and invest it in edibles, and above all, drinkables, and send the purchases up in the same way that this note had come down. The sharp-witted Red Rover understood matters at a glance, and rushed off to the nearest tavern, where the butchers were wont to congregate–but putin’ the two dollar bill in his own pocket–for safe keepin’, of course.

      Arrivin’ at the tavern, the Red Rover found several boss butchers assembled, testifyin’ their deep sympathy with their friends in the “locked-up” jury by drinkin’ deep as they discussed their sad condition. To these assembled spirits the Red Rover, in laconic style, communicated the request he had received from the foreman of the jury, only forgettin’ to say anythin’ about havin’ received the two dollars. It was entirely unnecessary for him to say anythin’ at all about the money, for without thinkin’ of it–thinking only of their hungry and thirsty friends up in the watch-house garret–the big-hearted boss butchers at once got together all the solids and fluids they could and sent ‘em up on that string, piece by piece, bottle by bottle, sandwiches, brandy, ham, rum, beef, whiskey, etc., etc., till there was enough stuff sent up on that string to supply two or three juries. This bein’ the case, the Red Rover thought himself entitled to his commission on the job, and so retained the original two dollars in his pocket.

      The night wore on. The morrow came. The crowd came to the watch-house with it. The judges came after the crowd, and the head constable was told, after the judges came, to go up to the garret and see if the jury had agreed by this time on their verdict.

      The head constable started to obey the order and stayed away some time, durin’ which time the boss butchers in the crowd made their bets among each other as to the verdict.

      Finally the head constable reappeared and all was expectation. You could have heard a pin drop as the judge, the serious-minded judge, turned to the head constable and questioned him.

      “Have the jury agreed, constable?” asked the serious-minded judge.

      “I guess not, your Honor,” replied the head constable.

      “Guess not,” repeated the serious-minded judge severely. “What do you mean by “guess not”, sir? Do the jury still want instructions from the court on any point of the evidence, on matters of fact or law within the jurisdiction of this court?”

      “I guess not, your Honor,” answered the constable.

      “Guess not again,” repeated the judge, with a gatherin’ frown. “Answer plainly, sir,” he continued. “Do the jury want to come into court?”

      “No, your Honor,” answered the constable.

      “Are they likely to agree?” asked the judge.

      “No, your Honor,” answered the questionable.

      “How do they stand?” asked the judge.

      “They do not stand at all, your Honor answered the constable. “They were all lyin’ down when I went upstairs just now. Most of ‘em were asleep on the chairs, the table or the floor, and all of ‘em were drunk, your Honor.”

      “This jury has been tampered with,” said the serious-minded judge, in righteous wrath. It was even so. Food and drink had tampered with ‘em so that they couldn’t have agreed on a verdict in a week. All that could be done with ‘em was done, but it wasn’t much. Man by man the twelve men were brought, or carried, or pulled down stairs, from the garret into the jury box. Man by man the mad judge called ‘em names and then lectured ‘em as a body. It was even proposed to take ‘em out and pump on ‘em, but there was no verdict in ‘em. So the “trial,” which was indeed now a “trial” upon one’s risibilities, was adjourned.

      And the case was never brought to trial again.

[Editor’s note: This column appears to be no more than an elaborate cock-and-bull story. Normally, when the “Harry Hill’s Thirty Years In Gotham” column descends into fiction, the writing is poor. But this one is so well told, with no moralizing, that it can be forgiven. Bear meat was indeed highly valued, as old butcher advertisements from New York City attest. The “Five Pound Court” was a civil court handling cases where the damages were slight. Red Rover Engine 34 was indeed a real volunteer fire company.]