Adjoining to the house was a little low blue frame, fronting also the street—and no ground speculator could pass it without sighing to think that so valuable a lot should be thus wasted. But Peter Jones owned both house and shop—his circumstances were comfortable, his tastes and ideas the reverse of elegant, and he had sense enough to perceive that in attempting a superior style of life he should be out of his element, and therefore less happy. Assisted at times by a journeyman, he continued to work at his trade because he was used to it, and that he might still have the enjoyment of making clothes for three or four veterans of the revolution; and also for two old judges, who had been in Congress in those sensible times when that well-chosen body acted more and talked less. All these sexagenarians, having been enamoured of Peter Jones's cut when he was the Watson of his day, still retained their predilection for it; liking also to feel at ease in their own clothes, and not to wear garments that seemed as if borrowed from "the sons of little men." These gentlemen of the old school never passed without stopping at the shop window to chat a few words with Peter; sometimes stepping in, and taking a seat on his green Windsor chair—himself always occupying the shop-board, whether he was at work or not.
Our hero, though a tailor, was a tall, stout, ruddy, well-looking old man, having a fine capacious forehead, thinly shaded with gray hair, which was tied behind in a queue, and a clear, lively blue eye. He had acquired something of a martial air while assisting in the war of Independence, by making regimental coats—and no doubt this assistance was of considerable importance to the cause, it being then supposed that all men, even Americans, fight better, and endure hardships longer, when dressed in uniform.
Peter Jones was a very popular man among his neighbours, being frank, good-natured, and clever in all manner of things. As soon as the new houses opposite were occupied, he made acquaintance with their inhabitants, who all regarded him as what is called a character; and he never abused the degree of familiarity to which they admitted him. He was considered a sort of walking directory—but when applied to, by a new settler, for the "whereabout" of a carpenter who might be wanted for a job, his usual answer was—"I believe I will bring over my saw and plane, and do it myself"—also, if a lock-smith or bell-hanger was inquired for, Peter Jones generally came himself, and repaired the lock or re-fixed the bell; just as skilfully as if he had been "to the manner born."
He took several of the opposite gardens under his special protection, and supplied them with seeds and roots from his own stock. He was as proud of their morning-glories, queen margarets, johny-jump-ups, daffydowndillies (for so in primitive parlance he called all these beautiful flowers), as if they had been produced in his own rather extensive ground, which was always in fine order, and to see which he often invited his neighbouring fellow-citizens. In flower season, he was rarely seen without a sprig or two in one of the button-holes of his lengthy waistcoat, for in warm weather he seldom wore a coat except on Sundays and on the Fourth of July, when he appeared in a well-kept, fresh-looking garment of bottle-green with large yellow buttons, a very long body, and a broad, short skirt.
His wife, Martha, was a plump, notable, quiet, pleasant-faced woman, aged about fifty-five, but very old-fashioned in looks and ideas. During the morning, when she assisted her servant girl, Mrs. Jones wore a calico short gown, a stuff petticoat, and a check-apron, with a close muslin cap—in the afternoon her costume was a calico long gown, a white linen apron, and a thinner muslin cap with brown ribbon; and on Sundays a silk gown, a clear muslin apron, and a still thinner and much larger cap trimmed with gray ribbon. Everything about them had an air of homely comfort, and they lived plainly and substantially. Peter brought home every morning on his arm an amply-filled market basket; but on Sundays their girl was always seen, before church time, carrying to the baker's a waiter containing a large dish that held a piece of meat mounted on a trivet with abundance of potatoes around and beneath, and also a huge pudding in a tin pan.
Peter Jones, who proportioned all his expenses so as to keep an even balance, allowed himself and his wife to go once in the season to the theatre, and that was on the anniversary of their wedding, an event of which he informed his neighbours he had never found cause to repent. This custom had been commenced the first year of their marriage, and continued ever since; and as their plays were few and far between, they enjoyed them with all the zest of novices in the amusement. To them every actor was good, and every play was excellent; the last being generally considered the best. They were not sufficiently familiar with the drama to be fastidious in their taste; and happily for them, they were entirely ignorant of both the theory and practice of criticism. To them a visit to the theatre was a great event; and on the preceding afternoon the neighbours always observed symptoms of restlessness in Peter, and a manifest disinclination to settle himself to anything. Before going to bed, he regularly, on the eve of this important day, went round to the theatre to look at the bills that are displayed in the vestibule a night in advance; being too impatient to wait for the announcement in the morning papers. When the play-day actually came, he shut up his shop at noon, and they had an earlier and better dinner than usual. About three, Peter appeared in full dress with a ruffled shirt and white cravat, wandering up and down the pavement, going in and out at the front-door, singing, whistling, throwing up his stick and catching it, stopping every one he knew, to have a talk with them on theatricals, and trying every device to while away the intervening hours. At four, the tea-table was set, that they might get over the repast in good time, and, as Mrs. Jones said, "have it off their minds."
The play-day was late in the spring, and near the close of the season; and while the sun was yet far above the horizon, Mr. and Mrs. Jones issued from their door, and walked off, arm-in-arm, with that peculiar gait that people always adopt when going to the theatre: he swinging his clouded cane with its ivory top and buckskin tassel, and she fanning herself already with a huge green fan with black sticks; and ambling along in her best shoes and stockings, and her annual silk gown, which, on this occasion, she always put on new.
As they went but once a year, they determined on doing the thing respectably, and on having the best possible view of the stage; therefore they always took seats in an upper front box. Arriving so early, they had ample time to witness the gradual filling of the house, and to conjecture who was coming whenever a box door was thrown open. To be sure, Peter had frequent recourse to his thick, heavy, but unerring silver watch, and when he found that it still wanted three quarters of an hour of the time for the curtain to rise, his wife sagely remarked to him that it was better to be even two hours too early than two minutes too late; and that they might as well get over the time in sitting in the play-house as in sitting at home. Their faces always brightened exceedingly when the musicians first began to emerge from the subterrany below, and took their places in the orchestra. Mrs. Jones pitied extremely those that were seated with their backs to the stage, and amusing herself with counting the fiddles, and observing how gradually they diminished in size from the bass viol down; till her husband explained to her that they diminished up rather than down, the smallest fiddle being held by the boss or foreman of the band. Great was their joy (and particularly that of Peter), when the increasing loudness of the instruments proclaimed that the overture was about to finish; when glimpses of feet appearing below the green curtain, denoted that the actors were taking their places on the stage, when the welcome tingle of the long-wished-for bell turned their eyes exultingly to the upward glide of the barrier that had so long interposed between them and felicity.
Many a listless and fastidious gentleman, having satiated himself with the theatre by the nightly use of a season ticket (that certain destroyer of all relish for dramatic amusements), might have envied in our plain and simple-minded mechanic the freshness of sensation, the unswerving interest, and the unqualified pleasure with which he regarded the wonders of the histrionic world.
To watch Peter Jones at his annual play was as amusing as to look at the performance itself (and sometimes much more so), such was his earnest attention, and his vivid enjoyment of the whole; as testified by the glee of his laugh, the heartiness of his applause, and the energy with which he joined in an encore. If it chanced to be a tragedy, he consoled his wife in what she called the "forepart of her tears," by reminding her that it was only a play; but as the pathos of the scene increased, he always caught himself first wiping his eyes with the back of his hand; then blowing his nose, trumpetwise, with his clean bandanna pocket-handkerchief; and then calling himself a fool for crying. Like Addison's trunk-maker, he frequently led the clap; and on Peter Jones's night there was certainly more applause than usual. The kindness of his heart, however, would never allow him to join in a hiss, assuring those about him that the actors and the play-writers always did their best, and that if they failed it was their misfortune, and not their fault.