Editor's Drawer.
We placed on record, not long since in the “Drawer,” two or three anecdotes of the pomposity and copied manners of New England negroes, in the olden time. Here is another one, that seems to us quite as laughable as the specimens to which we have alluded. It is not quite certain, but rather more than probable, that the minister who takes a part in the story was the same clergyman who said, in conversation with a distinguished Puritan divine, [pg 421] that he could “write six sermons a week and make nothing of it.” “Precisely!” responded the other; “you would make just nothing of your sermons!” But to the story.
There were a good many colored people in Massachusetts many years ago, and one of them, an old and favorite servant, was held by a clergyman in one of the easternmost counties of the State. His name was Cuffee; and he was as pompous and imitative as the Cæsar, whose master “libbed wid him down on de Plains,” in Connecticut. He presumed a good deal upon his age and consequence, and had as much liberty to do as he pleased as any body in the house. On the Sabbath he was always in the minister's pew, looking around with a grand air, and, so far as appearances went or indicated, profiting as much by his master's rather dull preaching as any of the congregation around him who were pretending to listen.
One Sunday morning Cuffee noticed that several gentlemen in the neighborhood of his master's pew had taken out their pencils, and were taking notes of the discourse; either because it was more than usually interesting, or because they wished it to be seen by the parson that they thought it was. Cuffee determined that he would follow the example thus set him; so in the afternoon he brought a sheet of paper and pen and ink-horn to church with him. His master, looking down from his pulpit into his pew, could hardly maintain his gravity, as he saw his servant “spread out” to his task, his great red tongue out, and one side of his face nearly touching the paper. Cufee applied himself vigorously to his notes, until his master had come to his “sixteenth and lastly,” and “in view of this subject we remark, in the eighth and last place,” &c., knowing nothing all the while, and caring just as little, about the wonderment of his master, who was occasionally looking down upon him.
When the minister reached home, he sent for Cufee to come into his study.
“Well, Cuffee,” said he, “what was that I saw you doing in meeting this afternoon?”
“Me, massa?—w'at was I a-doin?”
“Yes, Cuffee; what was that you were about, in stead of listening to the sermon?”
“I was a-listenin' hard, massa, and I was takin' notes.”
“You taking notes!” exclaimed the minister.
“Sartain, massa; all de oder gem'men take notes too.”
“Well, Cuffee, let us see your notes,” said his master.
Hereupon Cuffee produced his sheet of paper. It was scrawled all over with all sorts of marks and lines; worse than if a dozen spiders, escaped from an ink-bottle, had kept up a day's march over it. It would have puzzled Champollion himself to have unraveled its mysteries.
The minister looked over the notes, as if with great attention, and at length said,
“Why, Cuffee, this is all nonsense!”
“E'yah! e'yah!” replied Cuffee; “I t'ought so myse'f, all de time you was a-preachin'! Dat's a fac'! E'yah! e'yah!”
The minister didn't tell the story himself, being rather shy about the conclusion. It leaked out, however, through Cuffee, one day, and his master “never heard the last of it.”
In a play which we once read, there is a physician introduced, who comes to prescribe to a querulous, nervous old gentleman. His advice and directions as to what he is to do, &c., greatly annoy the excitable old man; but his prescriptions set him half crazy. He calls to the servant in a voice like a Stentor—although a moment before he had described that organ as “all gone, doctor—a mere penny-whistle”—and ordered him to “kick the doctor down stairs, and pay him at the street-door!” “Calls himself one of the ‘faculty?’ ” growled the old invalid, after the physician had left in high dudgeon, and vowing vengeance; “calls himself one of the faculty; stupid old ass! with his white choker and gold-headed cane, and shrugs, and sighs, and solemn looks: ‘faculty!’—why he hasn't got a faculty! never had a faculty!” We thought, at the time of reading this, of an anecdote which had lain for years in our “Drawer,” of the British actress, in one of the provincial towns of England, who was preparing to enact the solemnly tragic character of “Jane Shore,” in the historical and instructive drama of that name, which is richly worth perusal, for the lesson which it teaches of the ultimate punishment of vice, even in its most seductive form. The actress was in her dressing-room, preparing for the part, when her attendant, an ignorant country girl, informed her that a woman had called to request of her two orders for admission, to witness the performance of the play, her daughter and herself having walked four miles on purpose to see it.
“Does she know me?” inquired the lady.
“Not at all; leastways she said she didn't,” replied the girl.
“It is very strange!” said the lady—“a most extraordinary request! Has the good woman got her faculties about her?”
“I think she have, ma'am,” responded the girl, “for I see her have summat tied up in a red silk handkercher!”
One seldom meets with a truer thing than the following observations by a quaint and witty author upon what are termed, less by way of “eminence,” perhaps, rather than “notoriety,” Great Talkers:—“Great Talkers not only do the least, but generally say the least, if their words be weighed instead of reckoned.” He who labors under an incontinence of speech seldom gets the better of his complaint; for he must prescribe for himself, and is very sure of having a fool for his physician. Many a chatterbox might pass for a shrewd man, if he would keep his own secret, and put a drag-chain now and then upon his tongue. The largest minds have the smallest opinion of themselves; for their knowledge impresses them with humility, by showing them the extent of their ignorance, and the discovery makes them taciturn. Deep waters are still. Wise men generally talk little, because they think much. Feeling the annoyance of idle loquacity in others, they are cautious of falling into the same error, and keep their mouths shut when they can not open them to the purpose. The smaller the calibre of the mind, the greater the bore of a perpetually open mouth. Human heads are like hogsheads—the emptier they are, the louder report they give of themselves. I know human specimens who never think; they only think they think. The clack of their word-mill is heard, even when there is no wind to set it going, and no grist to come from it. A distinguished Frenchman, of the time of Cardinal Richelieu, being in the antechamber of that wily statesman, on one occasion, at the time that a great talker was loudly and incessantly babbling, entreated him to be silent, lest he might annoy the cardinal.
“Why do you wish me not to speak?” asked the chatterbox; “I talk a good deal, certainly, but then I talk well.”
“Half of that is true!” retorted the sarcastic Frenchman.
It is getting to be a rather serious business for a man to stand up, in these modern days, in a court of justice as a witness. What with impertinent questions of all sorts, and the impudent “bullyragging” of counsel, he is a fortunate and self-possessed man if he is not nearly at his wits' end before he comes off from that place of torture, a witness-stand. “Moreover, and which is more,” as Dogberry would say, when he comes off, he has not escaped; for now the reporters take him up; and in a little paragraph, inclosed in brackets, we hear somewhat of his character, personal appearance, &c., something after the following fashion:
“[Mr. Jenkins is a small, restless, fidgety man, with little black eyes, one of which has a remarkable inward inclination toward the nose, which latter feature of his face turns up slightly, and indicates, by its color, the influence upon it of alcoholic fluids. He is lame of one leg, and wore a drab roundabout. As he left the stand, we observed a patch on the north side of his pantaloons, which evidenced ‘premeditated poverty.’ Mr. Jenkins was an extremely willing witness.”]
If the witness is so fortunate as to escape the foregoing species of counsel, he may fall into the hands of another description; namely, the ambitious young advocate, who, as “the learned counsel,” considers it incumbent upon him to use high-sounding words, in order to impress both the jury and the witness with the extent of his legal acquirements, and the depth of his erudition generally.
Such a “counsel” it was, who, some years ago, in Albany, had assumed the management of the defense in a case of assault and battery which had occurred in that good old Dutch city. The witness, a not over-clear-headed Irishman, was placed upon the stand, where he was thus interrogated:
“Your name, you say, is Maloney?”
“Yes, Si-r-r; Maloney is me name, and me mother's name that bore me; long life to her in the owld counthry!”
“We don't wish to hear any thing of the ‘ould counthry,’ Mr. Maloney,” said the “witty” counsel “Mr. Maloney, do you know my client?”
“Sir?” asked Mr. Maloney, in a monosyllable.
“Do you know this man?” pointing to his client[.]
“Yes, Sir-r-r, I seen him wance-t.”
“Well, Mr. Maloney, did you see that man, that individual sitting at your right hand, did you see him raise his muscular arm, and endeavor to arouse the passions and excite the fears of my client?”
“Sir?” again asked the witness.
“The Court will please note the hesitancy of the witness. Let me ask you the second time, Mr. Maloney, did you have an uninterrupted view, were your optics undimmed, when the plaintiff by your side, the individual in question, raised his muscular arm, and with malice prepense and murder aforethought, assaulted the person of my client, in violation of the laws of the country and of the State of New York?”
“Sir?” said the witness, inquiringly, for the third time.
“Would it not be well, Mr. ——,” suggested the justice upon the bench to the “learned counsel,” “to put your question to the witness in simpler and more direct terms?”
“Perhaps so, your honor. The witness is either very stupid or very designing. Well then, Mr Maloney, you see that man, the plaintiff there, don't you?”
“Sure, I sees that man plain enough foreaninst me here, but I didn't know he was a plaintiff. He might ha' been a tinker, for all I knew about it.”
“Well, Mr. Maloney, you see him now, at least. Now, sir, do you see this man, my client?” laying his hand upon the defendant's shoulder.
“Bedad I do, yer honor; I'm not a mole nor a bat, yer honor.”
“Very well, Mr. Maloney. Now, Mr. Maloney, did you see that man strike this man?”
“I did, yer honor, and knock him flat. Faix! but 'twas a big blow! 'Twas like the kick ov a horse!”
“Your question is answered, Mr. Counsel,” said the magistrate, “and your testimony is now in.”
Dryden's lesson, that “it needs all we know to make things plain,” is somewhat illustrated by this actual occurrence.
Many a disciple of Lavater and of Spurzheim will tell you that physiology and phrenology are each, and of themselves, infallible tests of character. But, as Robert Burns sings:
“The best-laid schemes of mice and men
Gang aft aglee:”
a fact which was very humorously illustrated at the recent trial of the Michigan railroad conspirators. A man entered the crowded court-room one day, during the progress of the long-protracted trial, and looking eagerly around, asked of a by-stander which were the prisoners? A wag, without moving a muscle, pointed to the jury-box, and said.
“There they are, in that box!”
“I thought so!” said the inquirer, in a whisper. “What a set of gallows-looking wretches they are! If there's any thing in physiology and phrenology, they deserve hanging, any how!”
The jury were all “picked men” of that region!
It is a good many years ago now, since we laughed a good hour by “Shrewsbury Clock” at the following description, by the hero of a native romance bearing his name, of the manner and bearing of New York Dry Goods “Drummers.” The scene succeeds the history of the hero's first acquaintance with a “drummer;” who, mistaking him for a country “dealer,” had given him his card on board of a steamboat, taken him to his hotel in town, sent him his wine, given him tickets to the theatre, and requested him to call at his store in Hanover-square, where it was his intention to turn these courtesies to profitable account. On a bright pleasant morning, accordingly, our hero visits the store, where Mr. Lummocks, the drummer, receives him with open arms, and introduces him to his employer. But we will now let him tell the story in his own words; and Dickens has seldom excelled the picture:
“He shook me heartily by the hand, and said he was really delighted to see me. He asked me how the times were, and offered me a cigar, which I took, for fear of giving offense, but which I threw away the very first opportunity I got.
“ ‘Buy for cash, or on time?’ he asked.
“I was a little startled at the question, it was so abrupt; but I replied, ‘For cash.’
“ ‘Would you like to look at some prints, major?’ he inquired.
“ ‘I am made obliged to you,’ I answered; ‘I am very fond of seeing prints.’
“With that he commenced turning over one piece of calico after another, with amazing rapidity.
“ ‘There, major—very desirable article—splendid style—only two-and-six: cheapest goods in the street.’
“Before I could make any reply, or even guess at [pg 423] his meaning, he was called away, and Mr. Lummocks stepped up and supplied his place.
“ ‘You had better buy 'em, colonel,’ said Mr. Lummocks; ‘they will sell like hot cakes. Did you say you bought for cash?’
“ ‘Of course,’ I said, ‘if I buy at all.’
“He took a memorandum out of his pocket, and looked in it for a moment.
“ ‘Let me see,’ said he, ‘Franco, Franco—what did you say your firm was? Something and Franco, or Franco and Somebody? The name has escaped me.’
“ ‘I have no firm,’ I replied.
“ ‘O, you haven't, hain't ye? all alone, eh? But I don't see that I've got your first name down in my “tickler.” ’
“ ‘My first name is Harry,’ said I.
“ ‘Right—yes—I remember,’ said Mr. Lummocks, making a memorandum; ‘and your references, colonel, who did you say were your references?’
“ ‘I have no reference,’ I replied; ‘indeed I know of no one to whom I could refer, except my father.’
“ ‘What—the old boy in the country, eh?’
“ ‘My father is in the country,’ I answered, seriously, not very well pleased to hear my parent called the ‘Old Boy.’
“ ‘Then you have no city references, eh?’
“ ‘None at all: I have no friends here, except yourself.’
“ ‘Me!’ exclaimed Mr. Lummocks, apparently in great amazement. ‘Oh, oh!—but how much of a bill do you mean to make with us, captain?’
“ ‘Perhaps I may buy a vest-pattern,’ I replied, ‘if you have got some genteel patterns.’
“ ‘A vest-pattern!’ exclaimed Mr. Lummocks; ‘what! haven't you come down for the purpose of buying goods?’
“ ‘No, sir,’ I replied: ‘I came to New York to seek for employment; and as you had shown me so many kind attentions, I thought you would be glad to assist me in finding a situation.’
“Mr. Lummock's countenance underwent a very singular change when I announced my reasons for calling on him.
“ ‘Do you see any thing that looks green in there?’ he asked, pulling down his eyelid with his forefinger.
“ ‘No, sir, I do not,’ I replied, looking very earnestly into his eye.
“ ‘Nor in there, either?’ said he, pulling open his other eye.
“ ‘Nothing at all, sir,’ I replied, after a minute examination.
“ ‘I guess not!’ said Mr. Lummocks; and without making any other answer, he turned on his heel and left me.
“ ‘Regularly sucked, eh, Jack?’ asked a young man who had been listening to our conversation.
“ ‘Don't mention it!’ said Mr. Lummocks; ‘the man is a fool.’ ”
Our friend was about to demand an explanation of this strange conduct, when the proprietor came forward and told him that he was not a retailer but a jobber, and advised him, “if he wanted a vest-pattern, to go into Chatham-street!”
He must have been a good deal of an observer, and something of a philosopher also, who wrote as follows, in a unique paper, some fifteen years ago:
“Man is never contented. He is the fretful baby of trouble and care, and he will continue to worry and fret, no matter how pretty are the playthings that are laid before him to please him. He will sometimes fret because he can find nothing to fret about. I've known just such men myself. If he were bound to live in this world forever, he would fret because he couldn't leave and go to another, ‘just for a change;’ and now, seeing that sooner or later he must go, and no mistake, he frets like a caged porcupine, and thinks he would like to live here always. The fact is, he don't know what he wants.
“I've seen about enough of this world myself. For forty years I've been searching every nook and corner for some pleasant spring of happiness, instead of which I have only found a few flood-swollen streams, bearing upon their surface innumerable bubbles of vanity, and all along by their margins nests of young humbugs are continually being hatched. I have drunk of these waters nigh unto bursting, and have always departed as dry as a cork.
“In fact, I've been kicked about like an old hat, nearly used up by the flagellations of Old Time, and am now feeling the way with my cane down to the silent valley. But, yet, I'm happy—‘happy as a clam at high water.’ I sleep like a top, but I don't eat as much as I used to. Oh! it is a blessed thing to lie down at night with a light stomach, and a lighter conscience! You ought to see me sleep sometimes! The way I ‘take it easy is a caution to children!’ ”
It may not be new, but whether new or not, it is worthy of being repeated to our readers, the beautiful reply of a little lad to an English bishop, who said to him, one day, “If you will tell me where God is, I'll give you an orange.” “If you will tell me where He is not,” promptly responded the little fellow, “I will give you two!” Better than all earthly logic was the simple faith of this trusting child.
Here is an awful “fixed fact” for snuff-takers! Perhaps the “Statistics of Snuff and Sneezing” may yet form a part of some remote census of these United States:
“It has been very exactly calculated, that in forty years, two entire years of the snuff-taker's life are devoted to tickling his nose, and two more to the sonorous and agreeable processes of blowing and wiping it, with other incidental circumstances!”
How about “Statistics of Chewing?”—the time employed in selecting, inserting, rolling, and ejecting the quid?—the length of the yellow lines at the corners of the mouth, in the aggregate?—the lakes of saliva, spirted, squirted, spit, sprinkled, and drizzled? We commend the pregnant theme to some clever American statist. Ah! well would it be if we be stowed half the time in making ourselves agreeable, that we waste in rendering ourselves offensive to our friends!
The late lamented John Sanderson, the witty author of “The American in Paris,” speaking of Père La Chaise, says: “A Frenchman, who enjoys life so well, is, of all creatures, the least concerned at leaving it. He only wishes to be buried in the great Parisian burying-ground; and often selects his marble of the finest tints for his monument, and has his coffin made, and his grave dug in advance.” A lady told the author, with great empressement, that she had rather not die at all, than to die and be buried any where except in Père La Chaise!