Editor's Drawer.
The readers of the "Drawer" will be amused with a forcible picture, which we find in our collection, of the ups-and-downs of a strolling player's life. One would think such things enough to deter young men and women from entering upon so thorny a profession. "In one of the writer's professional excursions," runs our extract, "his manager finds himself in a woeful predicament. His pieces will not 'draw' in the quiet New England village where he had temporarily 'set up shop;' he and his company are literally starving; the men moodily pacing the stage; the women, who had kept up their spirits to the last, sitting silent and sorrowful; and the children, little sufferers! actually crying for food.
"I saw all this," says the manager, "and I began to feel very suicidal. It was night, and I looked about for a rope. At length I spied just what I wanted. A rope dangled at the prompt-side, and near a steep flight of stairs which led to a dressing room. 'That's it!' said I, with gloomy satisfaction: 'I'll mount those stairs, noose myself, and drop quietly off in the night; but first let me see whether it is firmly fastened or no.'
"I accordingly approached, gave a pull at the rope, when 'whish! whish!' I found I had set the rain a-going. And now a thought struck me. I leaped, danced, and shouted madly for joy.
"'Where did you get your liquor from?' shouted the 'walking-gentleman' of the company.
"'He's gone mad!' said Mrs. ——, principal lady-actress of the corps. 'Poor fellow!—hunger has made him a maniac. Heaven shield us from a like fate!'
"'Hunger!' shouted I, 'we shall be hungry no more! Here's food from above (which was literally true), manna in the wilderness, and all that sort of thing. We'll feed on rain; we'll feed on rain!'
"I seized a hatchet, and mounting by a ladder, soon brought the rain-box tumbling to the ground.
"My meaning was now understood. An end of the box was pried off, and full a bushel of dried beans and peas were poured out, to the delight of all. Some were stewed immediately, and although rather hard, I never relished any thing more. But while the operation of cooking was going on below, we amused ourselves with parching some beans upon the sheet-iron—the 'thunder' of the theatre—set over an old furnace, and heated by rosin from the lightning-bellows.
"So we fed upon rain, cooked by thunder-and-lightning!"
There is nothing in the history of Irving's "Strolling Player" more characteristic of his class than the foregoing; and there is a verisimilitude about the story which does not permit us to doubt its authenticity. It is too natural not to be true.
Think of a patent-medicine vender rising at the head of his table, where were assembled some score or two of his customers, and proposing such a toast as the following:
"Gentlemen: allow me to propose you a sentiment. When I mention Health, you will all admit that I allude to the greatest of sublunary blessings. I am sure then that you will agree with me that we are all more or less interested in the toast that I am about to prescribe. I give you, gentlemen,
"Physic, and much good may it do us!"
This sentiment is "drunk with all the honors," when a professional Gallenic vocalist favors the company with the annexed song:
"A bumper of Febrifuge fill, fill for me,
Give those who prefer it, Black Draught;
But whatever the dose a strong one it must be,
Though our last dose to-night shall be quaffed.
And while influenza attacks high and low,
And man's queerest feelings oppress him,
Mouth-making, nose-holding, round, round let I go,
Drink our Physic and Founder—ugh, bless him."
The reader may have heard a good deal from the poets concerning "The Language of Flowers;" but here is quite a new dialect of that description, in the shape of mottos for different fruits and vegetables in different months:
Motto for the Lilac in April: "Give me leave."
For the Rose in June: "Well, I'm blowed!"
For the Asparagus in July: "Cut and come again."
For the Marrowfat Pea in August: "Shell out!"
For the Apple in September: "Go it, my Pippins!"
For the Cabbage in December: "My heart is sound: my heart is my own."
Now that "shads is come;" now that lamb has arrived, and green peas may soon be looked for; now that asparagus is coming in, and poultry is going out, listen to the Song of the Turkey, no longer seen hanging by the legs in the market, and rejoice with him at his emancipation:
"The season of Turkeys is over!
The time of our danger is past:
'Tis the turn of the wild-duck and plover,
But the Turkey is safe, boys, at last!
"Then hobble and gobble, we'll sing, boys,
No longer we've reason to fear;
Who knows what a twelvemonth will bring, boys,
Let's trust to the chance of the year!
"The oyster in vain now may mock us,
Its sauce we can proudly disdain;
No sausages vulgar shall shock us,
We are free, we are free from their chain!
"Then hobble and gobble, we'll sing, boys,
No longer we've reason to fear;
Who knows what a twelvemonth will bring, boys.
Let's trust to the chance of the year!
"What matters to you and to me, boys,
That one whom we treasured when young,
With a ticket, "Two dollars! look here!" boys,
In a poulterer's window was hung!
"Then hobble and gobble, we'll sing, boys,
No longer we've reason to fear;
Who knows what a twelvemonth will bring, boys,
Let's trust to the chance of the year!
"Then mourn not for friends that are eaten,
A drum-stick for care and regret!
Enough that, the future to sweeten,
Our lives are not forfeited yet!
"Then hobble and gobble, we'll sing, boys,
No longer we've reason to fear;
Who knows what a twelvemonth will bring, boys,
Let's trust to the chance of the year!"
Somewhat curious, if true, is an anecdote which is declared to be authentic, and which we find among the disjecta membra of our ollapodrida:
Lieutenant Montgomery had seen much military service. The wars, however, were over; and he had nothing in the world to do but to lounge about, as best he could, on his half-pay. One day he was "taking his ease in his inn," when he observed a stranger, who was evidently a foreigner, gazing intently at him. The lieutenant appeared not to notice him, but shifted his position. After a short time the stranger shifted his position also, and still stared with unblemished, unabated gaze.
This was too much for Montgomery. He rose, and approaching his scrutinizing intruder, said:
"Do you know me, sir?"
"I think I do," answered the foreigner. (He was a Frenchman.)
"Have we ever met before?" continued Montgomery.
"I will not swear for it; but if we have—and I am almost sure we have," said the stranger, "you have a sabre-cut, a deep one, on your right wrist."
"I have," said Montgomery, turning back his sleeve, and displaying a very broad and ugly scar. "I didn't get this for nothing, for the brave fellow who made me a present of it I repaid with a gash across the skull!"
The Frenchman bent down his head, parted his hair with his hands, and said:
"You did: you may look at the receipt."
The next moment they were in each other's arms.
Now this story seems a little problematical; and yet it is vouched for on what ought to be considered reliable authority. In short, it is true in every respect.
Some ambitious juvenile once sung, with an aspiration "peculiar to our institutions,"
"I wish I was the President
Of these United States,
I never would do nothing
But swing on all the gates."
He little knew the miseries, the ennui, the mental dyspepsia, which afflicts the wretch who has nothing to do. One of these unhappy mortals it is, who says, in the bitterness of his spirit:
"Sir, I have no books, and no internal resources. I can not draw, and if I could, there's nothing that I want to sketch. I don't play the flute, and if I did there's nobody that I should like to have listen to me. I never wrote a tragedy, but I think I am in that state of mind in which tragedies are written. Any thing lighter is out of the question. I whistle four hours a day, yawn five, smoke six, and sleep the rest of the twenty-four, with a running accompaniment of swearing to all these occupations except the last, and I'm not quite sure that I don't sometimes swear in my dreams.
"In one word, sir, I'm getting desperate, for the want of something to do."
There is a good deal of humor in the sudden contrast of sentiment and language exhibited in the verses below. They purport to be the tragi-comical tale of a deserted sailor-wife, who, with a baby in her arms, comes often to a rock that overlooks the main, to catch, if possible, a glimpse of a returning sail. At length, in despair, she throws her infant into the sea:
"A gush of tears fell fast and warm,
As she cried, with dread emotion,
Rest, baby! rest that fairy form
Beneath the rush of ocean;
'Tis calmer than the world's rude storm,
And kinder—I've a notion!
······
"Now oft the simple country folk
To this sad spot repair,
When wearied with their weekly yoke,
They steal an hour from care;
And they that have a pipe to smoke,
They go and smoke it there!
"When soon a little pearly bark
Skims o'er the level brine,
Whose sails, when it is not too dark,
With misty brightness shine:
Though they who these strange visions mark
Have sharper eyes than mine!
"And, beauteous as the morn, is seen
A baby on the prow,
Deck'd in a robe of silver sheen,
With corals round his brow—
A style of head-dress not, I ween,
Much worn by babies now!"
What somebody of the transcendental school of these latter days calls the "element of unexpectedness," is very forcibly exemplified by the writer from whom we have quoted.
We have often laughed over the following scene, but couldn't tell where it is recorded to save our reputation for "general knowledge." All that we do know is, that it is a clever sketch by a clever writer whoever he may be. The scene is a military station; and it should be premised that a certain surly, ill-tempered major, whose wife and sister are in the habit of visiting him at the barracks, gives orders, out of spite to subordinate officers, whose families have hitherto enjoyed the same privilege, that "no females are to be allowed in barracks after tattoo, under any pretense whatever:"
"It so happened that the morning after this announcement appeared in the order-book, an old lieutenant, who might have been the major's grandfather, and whom we used to call "The General," on account of his age and gray hairs, was the officer on duty. To the sergeant of the guard "the General" gave the necessary orders, with strict injunctions to have them obeyed to the letter.
"Shortly after tattoo, sundry ladies, as usual, presented themselves at the barrack-gate, and were, of course, refused admission; when, to the surprise of the sentinel on duty, the major's lady and sister-in-law made their appearance, and walked boldly to the wicket, with the intention of entering as usual. To their utter astonishment, the sentry refused them permission to pass. The sergeant was called, but that worthy was quite as much of a precisian as the ladies, and his conscience would not permit him to let them in.
"'Do you know who we are, sir?' asked the major's lady, with much asperity of voice and manner.
"'Oh, sartingly; I knows your ladyships wery well.'
"'And pray, what do you mean, sir, by this insolence?'
"'I means no imperance whatsomdever, marm; but my orders is partickler, to let no female ladies into this here barracks a'ter tattoo, upon no account whatever; and I means for to obey my orders without no mistake.'
"'Then you have the effrontery, do you, to refuse admittance to the lady of your commanding officer?' screamed the Honorable Mrs. Snooks.
"'And her sister!' joined in the second lady.
"'Most sartingly, marm,' replied the non-commissioned officer, with profound gravity: 'I knows my duty, marm.'
"'Good gracious, what assurance!' exclaimed both ladies in a breath.
"'No insurance at all, marm: if your ladyships was princesses, you couldn't come in after tattoo; my orders is partikler!'
"'Don't you know, stupid, that these orders can not be intended to apply to us?'
"'I doesn't know nuffin about that, my lady: all I know is, that orders is orders, and must be obeyed.'
"'Impudence!'
"'Imperance or no imperance, I must do my duty; and I can tell your ladyships if my superior officers was for to give me orders not to let in the major himself, I would be obligated for to keep him off at the p'int of the bay'net!'
"The officer of the guard was sent for, and the officer of the guard sent for the orderly-book, which, by the light of the guard-room lantern, was exhibited to the ladies by 'the General,' in justification of his apparent rudeness."
It might, doubtless, have been added, that the effect of such a lesson upon the major, was of a salutary nature; for the chalice was commended to his own lips, which he had prepared for others, in downright earnest.
These lines, from the pen of a Southern poet, are very tender and touching. They were printed some ten years since:
"My little girl sleeps on my arm all night,
And seldom stirs, save when, with playful wile,
I bid her rise and place her lips to mine,
Which in her sleep she does. And sometimes then,
Half-muttered in her slumbers, she affirms
Her love for me is boundless. And I take
The little bud and close her in my arms;
Assure her by my action—for my lips
Yield me no utterance then—that in my heart
She is the treasured jewel. Tenderly,
Hour after hour, without desire of sleep,
I watch above that large amount of hope,
Until the stars wane, and the yellow morn
Walks forth into the night."
In the final disposition of his characters, Dickens excels any living author. There is no confusion—no infringement of the natural. In "Barnaby Rudge," for example, the old lethargic inn-keeper, Willett, retiring in his dotage, and with his ruling passion strong upon him, scoring up vast imaginary sums to imaginary customers, and the lament of the elder Weller at the death of good old Master Humphrey, are not only characteristic, they are perfect specimens of their kind. "And the sweet old creetur," says the elder Weller "has bolted. Him as had no wice, and was so free from temper that an infant might ha' drove 'im, has been took at last with that ere unawoidable fit of the staggers, as we must all come to, and gone off his feed forever!" "I see him," continues the old stage-coach driver, "I see him gettin' every journey more and more groggy. I says to Samivel, says I, 'Samivel, my boy, the Gray's a-going at the knees;' and now my predilection is fatally werified; and him as I could never do enough to serve or to show my likin' for, is up the great uniwersal spout o' natur'!"
It is poor Tom Hood, if we have not forgotten, who describes a species of "Statistical Fellows" as
——"A prying, spying, inquisitive clan,
Who jot down the laboring classes' riches,
And after poking in pot and pan,
And routing garments in want of stitches,
Have ascertained that a working man
Wears a pair and a half of average breeches!"
Of this kind was the "Scientific Ass-sociate" mentioned in the "Table Talk of the late John Boyle." The Professor is setting forth one of his "various important matters connected with every-day life." The learned gentleman spoke of shaving as follows:
"The mode of shaving differs in different individuals. Some are very close shavers; others are greater adepts at cutting unpleasant acquaintances than themselves. It is, however, most important that the art of shaving should be reduced to a nicety, so that a man can cut his beard with the same facility as he could cut his stick. It is also of consequence that an accurate calculation should be made of the number of shaving brushes and the number of half pounds of soap used in the course of the year by respectable shavers, for I have observed that some of them are very badly off for soap. There is also a very great variation in the price of labor. Some barbers undertake to shave well for threepence; others charge a much higher sum. This is probably the effect of competition; and I must say, that the Government deserves well of the country for not encouraging any monopoly. At the same time there is a looseness in the details of the profession, which I should like to see corrected. An accurate register ought to be kept of the number of individuals who shave themselves, and of those who shave daily, every other day, and once a week only. We can hardly contemplate the immense benefits which science would reap, if such matters as these were properly attended to!"
Who has not seen just such statistics as these dwelt upon with unction by your thorough "statist?"
Never forget this "Receipt of Domestic Economy." When you have paid a bill, always take, and keep, a receipt of the same:
"O, fling not the receipt away,
Given by one who trusted thee;
Mistakes will happen every day.
However honest folks may be;
And sad it is, oh, twice to pay,
So cast not thy receipt away!
"Ah, yes; if e'er in future hours,
When we this bill have all forgot,
They send it in again! ye powers!
And swear that we have paid it not;
How sweet to know, on such a day,
We've never cast receipts away!"
The following is one of the pen-and-ink portraits that have found their way into the "Drawer." The sitter was a subject of our own Gotham.
"He was a Scotchman by birth, and had, without exception, the ugliest face I ever saw on a man's shoulders, or a monkey's either, for that matter. But by a perversity of taste, not unusual in the world, the man made a complete hobby of his 'mug,' homely as it was; and was full of the conceit that on fit occasions he could summon to it a look of terrible and dignified sarcasm, that was more efficacious than words or blows. He was rather insolent in his deportment, and was consequently continually getting into scrapes with some one or other, in which he invariably got the worst of it; because instead of lifting his hand, and giving blow for blow, he always trusted to the efficacy of his look. His various little mishaps he used to relate to his fellow-boarders at meal-times, always concluding his narrations with, 'But didn't I give the dirty rapscallions one o' my looks?' And then twisting his 'ugly mug' into a shape impossible to be described, he fancied he had convinced his hearers that his antagonists, whoever they were, would be in no hurry to meddle with him again!
"The last time I saw him, he was giving an account of an insult he had received the night before at some porter-house in the neighborhood, where a little fellow, who was a perfect stranger to him, had insisted upon drinking at his expense, and who, when he refused to pay for the liquor, had not only abused him most shamefully with his tongue, but had actually kicked him.
"'Kick you!' exclaimed a fellow-boarder.
"'Yes!' said he, growing warm with the recital; 'he kicked me here!' and he laid his hand on that portion of his valorous person that had come in contact with the stranger's boot.
"'And what did you say to that?' asked a second listener.
"'What did I say to it?' he replied, as if astonished that any body should be ignorant of his invariable rejoinder to similar assaults. 'What did I say? I said nothing at all. The kick was but a soft one, and the fellow that gave it a wee bit of a 'jink-ma-doddy,' that I could have throttled with one hand on the spot. But I just contented myself with giving him one of my looks!'
"Here Sawney 'defined his position' to the company, by giving them one of his awful glances. But this time he managed to convey an expression of ugliness and comicality so far beyond any thing he had ever called up before, that the inference was irresistible that the kick he had received must have been a good deal harder than he was willing to acknowledge."
Any man or woman walking up or down the sunny side of Broadway, on a pleasant summer day, will see various little bipeds, with thin legs, faded countenances, and jaded air, flourishing little canes, who may, perhaps, bring to mind the following lines:
"Some say there's nothing made in vain,
While others the reverse maintain,
And prove it, very handy,
By citing animals like these—
Musquitoes, bed-bugs, crickets, fleas,
And, worse than all—a dandy!"
But Nature, as the poet adds, "never made a dandy;" he was cast in a fictitious mould altogether.
There is something not over-complimentary to us, magazine-editors, in the remonstrance which "Chawls Yellowplush" makes to his employer against his discharging him from his employ, because he has ascertained that he writes in magazines, and other periodicals:
"'Sir,' says I, claspink my 'ands, and bursting into tears, 'do not, for Eving's sake, do not think of anythink of the sort, or drive me from your service, because I have been fool enough to write in magazeens! Glans but one moment at your honor's plate; every spoon is as bright as a mirror; condescend to igsamine your shoos; your honor may see reflected in them the faces of every one in the company. If occasionally I've forgot the footman in the lit'ry man, and committed to paper my remindicences of fashionable life, it was from a sinsear desire to do good and promote nollitch; and I apeal to your honor—I lay my hand on my busm, and in the face of this honorable company, beg you to say—when you rung your bell, who came to you first? When you stopt out till mornink, who sat up for you? When you was ill, who forgot the nat'ral dignities of his station, and answered the two-pair bell? Oh, sir,' says I, 'I knows what's what: don't send me away! I know them lit'ry chaps, and, bleave me, I'd rather be a footman. The work is not so hard—the pay is better—the vittels incompyrably shuperiour. I've but to clean my things, run my errints, you put clothes on my back, and meat in my mouth.'"
This was written by one who was himself, in his own person, an admirable illustration of what success and honor a true literary man is capable of achieving; but Yellowplush's "lit'ry men" were of a different calibre.
The learned "science-women" of the day, the "deep, deep-blue stockings" of the time, are fairly hit off in the ensuing satirical sonnet:
I idolize the Ladies! They are fairies,
That spiritualize this world of ours;
From heavenly hot-beds most delightful flowers,
Or choice cream-cheeses from celestial dairies,
But learning, in its barbarous seminaries,
Gives the dear creatures many wretched hours,
And on their gossamer intellect sternly showers
Science, with all its horrid accessaries.
Now, seriously, the only things, I think,
In which young ladies should instructed be,
Are—stocking-mending, love, and cookery!—
Accomplishments that very soon will sink,
Since Fluxions now, and Sanscrit conversation,
Always form part of female education!
Something good in the way of inculcation may be educed from this rather biting sonnet. If woman so far forgets her "mission," as it is common to term it nowadays, as to choose those accomplishments whose only recommendation is that they are "the vogue," in preference to acquisitions which will fit her to be a better wife and mother, she becomes a fair subject for the shafts of the satirical censor.
The following bit of gossip is especially "Frenchy," and will remind the readers of "The Drawer" of the man described by the late Robert C. Sands, who sued for damages in a case of breach-of-promise of marriage. He was offered two hundred dollars to heal his breaking heart. "Two hundred dollars!" he exclaimed; "two hundred dollars for ruined hopes—for blighted affection—for a wretched existence—a blasted life! Two hundred dollars! for all this!! No—never! Make it three hundred, and it's a bargain!" But to the French story:
"A couple very well known in Paris are at present arranging terms of separation, to avoid the scandal of a judicial divorce. A friend has been employed by the husband to negotiate the matter. The latest mission was in relation to a valuable ring given to the husband by one of the then sovereigns of Europe, and which he wished to retain. For this he would make a certain much-desired concession, The friend made the demand—
"What!" said the indignant wife, "do you venture to charge yourself with such a mission to me! Can you believe that I could tear myself from a gift which alone recalls to me the day when my husband loved me? No: this ring is my only souvenir of a happiness, now, alas! forever departed! 'Tis all that I now possess of a once-fond husband!"
Here she threw herself upon a fauteuil, and covered her face with her hands.
But the husband's friend insisted. The lady supplicated—grew desperate—threatened to submit to a public divorce, as a lesser evil than parting with that cherished ring—and at last confessed that she had—sold the ring six months before!
Wasn't that a climax?
A very quaint and pretty scrap of verse is this, from the old German:
"Should you meet my true love,
Say, I greet her well;
Should she ask you how I fare,
Say, she best can tell.
"Should she ask if I am sick,
Say, I died of sorrow;
Should she then begin to weep,
Say, I'll come to-morrow!"
It has been thought strange, that when a malefactor is executed at "The Tombs," that curiosity should be excited to know how the unfortunate wretch behaved at the last, and at the same time great anxiety is manifested to obtain the slightest relic connected with his ignominious death. This propensity is well hit off in the following episode in the life of "A Criminal Curiosity-Hunter." A friend visits him, and he thus describes the interview:
"He received me with extreme urbanity, and asked me to sit down in an old-fashioned arm-chair. I did so.
"'I suppose, sir,' said he, with an air of suppressed triumph, 'that you have no idea that you are now sitting in a very remarkable chair!'
"I assured him that I was totally unconscious of the fact.
"'Let me tell you, then,' said he, 'that it was in that chair that Fauntleroy, the banker, who was hanged for forgery, was sitting when he was arrested!'
"'Indeed!'
"'Fact, sir! I gave ten guineas for it! I thought, also, to have obtained the night-cap in which he slept the night before his execution, but another collector was beforehand with me, and bribed the turnkey to steal it for him.'
"'I had no idea,' I said, 'that there could be any competition for such an article.'
"'Ah, sir!' said he, with a deep sigh, 'you don't know the value of these interesting relics. I have been upward of thirty years a collector of them. When a man devotes himself to a great object, he must go to it heart and soul. I have spared neither time nor money in my pursuit; and since I became a collector I have attended the execution of every noted malefactor throughout the kingdom.'
"Perceiving that my attention was drawn to a common rope which served as a bell-pull, he said to me:
"'I see you are remarking my bell-cord; that is the identical rope, sir, which hanged Bellingham, who murdered Mr. Perceval in the House of Commons. I offered any sum for the one in which Thistlewood ended his life, to match it, but I was disappointed.... The Whigs, sir, have swept away all our good old English customs, and deprived us of our national recreations. I remember, sir, when Monday was called 'hanging-day' at the Old Bailey; on that morning a man might be certain of seeing three or four criminals swung off before breakfast.'"
The criminal curiosity-hunter now takes his friend into an adjoining room, where he shows him his general museum of curiosities, comprising relics of every grade of crime, from murder to petty larceny; among them a door-mat made of oakum picked by a "lady"-culprit while in the penitentiary; a short clay-pipe, once in the possession of Burke, the wholesale murderer; and the fork belonging to the knife with which some German had cut his wife's and children's throats!
"Misery," it is said, "loves company." What a juvenile "company," when the last thaw came—(and so many came, after what was supposed to be the last snow, this season, that it would be difficult to count them)—what a juvenile company, we say, there was, to lament with the skate-vender who poured out his griefs in the following affecting parody upon the late Thomas Moore's lines, "I never loved a dear gazelle," &c.:
"I never wrote up 'Skates to sell,'
Trusting to fickle Nature's law,
But—when I advertised them well,
And puffed them—it was sure to thaw.
Yes; it was ever thus—the Fates
Seem adverse to the trade in skates.
"If a large lot I chanced to buy,
Thinking 'twas likely still to freeze
Up the thermometer would fly,
All in a day, some ten degrees.
Their presence in my window-pane,
Turns ice to mud, and snow to rain."
But, after all, our skate-vender has no great need of fear. We have had deep snows in April, and May may bring him his season yet: for what says the Almanac of past years? Why, that
"Monday, fourth of May,
Was a very snowy day!"