Pencil Sketches; or, Outlines of Character and Manners

by Eliza Leslie

That all the old observances of the theatre might be duly observed, he failed not to produce between the play and farce an ample supply of what children denominate "goodies," as a regale for Mrs. Jones and himself; also presenting them all round to every one within his reach; and if there were any little boys and girls in the vicinity, he always produced a double quantity.

It is unnecessary to say that Mr. and Mrs. Jones always stayed to the extreme last; not quitting their seats till the curtain had descended to the very floor, and shut from their view, for another year, the bows and curtsies of the actors at the final of the finale in the concluding scene of the after-piece. Then our happy old couple walked leisurely home, and had a supper of cold meat and pickles, and roasted potatoes; and talked of the play over the supper-table; and also over the breakfast-table next morning; and also to all their acquaintances for a month or two afterwards.

In those days, when Peter Jones found the enjoyment of one play sufficient to last him a twelvemonth, the Philadelphia theatre was in its "high and palmy state." There was an excellent stock company, with a continual succession of new pieces, or judicious revivals of old ones of standard worth. The starring system, as it is called, did not then prevail. The performers, having permanent engagements, were satisfied to do their duty towards an audience with whose tastes they were familiar. Each actor could play an infinite number of parts—each singer could sing an infinity of songs—and all considered it a portion of their business to learn new characters, or new music.

Having seen Mr. Bluster in Hamlet, Pierre, and Romeo, we were not expected, after a short interval, to crowd again to the theatre to applaud Mr. Fluster in Romeo, Pierre, and Hamlet. Having laughed sufficiently at Mr. Skipabout in Young Rapid, Bob Handy, and Rover, we were not then required, in the lapse of a few weeks, to laugh likewise at Mr. Tripabout in Rover, Bob Handy, and Young Rapid. Also, if we had been properly enraptured with Madam Dagolini Dobson in Rosina and Rosetta, we were not compelled, almost immediately, to re-prepare our bravos and bravissimas for Madame Jomellini Jobson in Rosetta and Rosina.

The list of acting plays was not then reduced to about five comedies, and six tragedies; served out night after night, not in the alternate variety of one of each sort successively, but with a course of tragedy for a hero of the buskin, and a course of comedy for the fortunate man that was able to personate a lively gentleman. Neither were the lovers of vocal harmony obliged to content themselves with the perpetual repetition of four musical pieces, regularly produced, "when certain stars shot madly from their spheres" in the brilliant and recherché opera-houses of Europe (where princes and kings pay for a song in diamonds), to waste their glories on yankees, buckeyes, and tuckahoes, whose only idea of pay is in the inelegant form of things called dollars.

It is true that in those days the machinery and decorations of the Philadelphia stage, and the costume of the actors, were far inferior to the materiel of the present time; but there was always a regular company of sterling excellence, the pieces were various and well selected, and the audience was satisfied.

Years had passed on, and Peter and Martha Jones were still "keeping the even tenor of their way," and enjoying the anniversary play with all their might, when a house on the other side of the street was taken by a respectable hair-dresser, whose window soon exhibited all the emblems of his profession, arranged with peculiar taste, and among them an unusual assortment of wigs for both sexes.

Now, if Mrs. Jones had a failing (and who is perfect), it was in indulging a sort of anti-barber prejudice, very unaccountable, certainly—but so are most prejudices. This induced her rather to discourage all demonstrations of her husband's usual disposition to make acquaintance with the new neighbours, whom she set down in her own mind as "queer people"—a very comprehensive term. To be sure, Mr. Dodcomb's looks and deportment differed not materially from those of any other hair-dresser; but Peter Jones could not help agreeing that the appearance of his family were much at variance with the imputed virtues of the numerous beautifying specifics that were set forth in his shop. For instance, notwithstanding the infallibility of his lotions and emollients, and creams and pastes, the face and neck of Mrs. Dodcomb obstinately persisted in remaining wrinkled, yellow, speckled, and spotty. And in spite of Macassar oil, and bear's oil, and other certain promoters of luxuriant, soft, and glossy tresses, her locks continued scanty, stringy, stiff, and disorderly. By-the-bye, though there were "plenty more in the shop," she always wore a comb whose teeth were "few and far between."

Though Mr. Dodcomb professed to cut hair in a style of unrivalled elegance, the hair of his children was sheared to the quick, their heads looking nearly as bald as if shaved with a razor; and this phrenological display was rather unbecoming to the juvenile Dodcombs, as their ears were singularly prominent and donkey-like. Then as to skin, the faces of the boys were sadly freckled, and those of the girls surprisingly coarse and rough.

Mrs. Jones came to a conclusion that their new neighbour must be a remarkably close man, and unwilling to waste any of his stock in trade upon his own family; and Peter thought it would be more politic in Mr. Dodcomb to use his wife and children as pattern cards, exhibiting on their heads and faces the success of his commodities; which Mrs. Jones unamiably suspected to be all trash and trickery, and far inferior to plain soap and water.