Wherever any thing was going on—“a fight or a foot-race,” according to popular phraseology, which thus distinguishes the desirable in the shape of spectacular entertainment—there was Snippe, with his hat set knowingly on one side, to indicate that if others felt out of their element on the occasion, he, Snippe, was perfectly at home under all circumstances—the more at home, the more singular the occasion, and the more strange the circumstance; and his hat was the more knowingly set on to indicate the extent of his superiority to vulgar prejudices. It was the hat of a practical philosopher—of a thorough bred man of the world, who could extract sport from any thing, and who did not care, so that the occurrence afforded excitement, whether other people thought it reprehensible or not. Yes, yes—there is much in a hat—talk of your physiognomy and your phrenology—what are they as indications of character, feeling, and disposition, compared to the “set” of one’s beaver? Look at courage, will you, with its hat drawn resolutely down upon its determined brow. Dare you dispute the way with such a hat as that? The meek one and the lowly, with his hat placed timidly on the back of his head, does not every bully practice imposition there? Hats turned up behind, indicate a scornful indifference to public opinion in all its phases—say what you will, who cares? While the hat turned up before, has in it a generous confidence, free from suspicion of contempt. Nay, more—when science has made a further progress, why should not the expression of the hat afford knowledge of the passing mood of mind in its wearer, the hat shifting and changing in position as the brain beneath forms new combinations of thought? Let the shop-boy answer; does he not discover at a glance, from the style in which his master wears his hat at the moment, whether he, the subordinate, is to be greeted with scoldings and reproaches, or with commendations and applause? Does not the hat paternal forbode the sunshine or the storm; and as the pedagogue approaches school, where is the trembling truant who does not discern “the morn’s disaster” from the cocking of that awful hat? There cannot be a doubt of it. The science of the hat yet remains to be developed; and deep down in the realms of ignorance are they who have not reflected yet upon the clue afforded by the hat to what is passing in the soul of him who wears it.
Thus, you could distinguish Singleton Snippe’s hat at a horse-race, at a riot, or at a fire—equally delighted was that hat at every species of uproar—in the street—the lobby—the bar-room, or wherever else that hat could spy out “fun,” the great staple of its existence, with this advantage, that it had an instinct of peril, and could extricate itself from danger without the slightest ruffling of its fur. Snippe was wise—Snippe preferred that all detriments should fall to the share of others, while the joke remained with him.
But at last, a change reached even unto the hat of Snippe—change comes to all; a change, singularly enough, that took all other change from the pockets of Snippe. He was obliged to discover that the mere entertainments of life are not a commodity to live upon, and that however pleasant it may be to amuse one’s self, the profits therefrom accruing, do not furnish continued means of delectation and delight. Snippe neglected his business, and consequently, his business, with a perversity peculiar to business, neglected Snippe—so that Snippe and Snippe’s business had a falling out.
“This will never do,” declared Snippe, after deep reflection on the subject of ways and means—“never do in the world.”
But yet it did do—did do for Singleton Snippe, and effectually broke him up in the mercantile way, which involved all other ways; and so Mr. Snippe resolved to make the most available market that presented itself for the retrieval of past error. Snippe resolved to marry—advantageously, of course. Snippe was not poetical—he had no vein of romance in his constitution; he could live very well by himself, if he only had the means for that purpose; but not having the means, unfortunate Snippe, he determined to live by somebody else, living of some sort being a matter of necessity in Snippe’s estimation, though no other person could discover what necessity there was for the living of Snippe. The world might revolve without a Snippe; and affairs generally would work smoothly enough, even if he were not present. Snippe labored under a delusion.
But still—not having much of philosophy in his composition to enable him to discover that, so for as the general economy of the universe is concerned, it was no matter whether Singleton Snippe obtained a living or not; and lacking the desire, if not also the ability, to work out that living by his own energies of head and hands, Snippe, according to his own theory, having too much of proper pride and of commendable self-respect to engage in toil, though some of the unenlightened gave it the less respectful designation of laziness, which, perhaps, is a nearer relative to the pride of the Snippes than is generally supposed—Snippe, as already intimated, made up his mind to marry as aforesaid—upon the mercantile principle—bartering Snippe as a valuable commodity, (without regard to the penal enactments against obtaining goods on false pretences) for a certain share of boarding and lodging, and of the other appliances required for the outfit and the sustenance of a gentleman of wit and leisure about town—Snippe offered to the highest bidder—Snippe put up, and Snippe knocked down—going—gone!
Now although there are many who would not have had Singleton Snippe about the premises, even as a gift, and would have rejected him had he been offered as a Christmas-box, yet there was a rich widow, having the experience of three or four husbands, who did not hesitate on the experiment of endeavoring to fashion our Snippe into the shape and form of a good and an available husband. Mrs. Dawkins was fully aware of the nature of his past life, and of the peculiarities of his present position. She likewise formed a shrewd guess as to the reasons which impelled him to seek her well-filled hand, and to sigh after her plethoric purse—Snippe in search of a living; but confident in her own skill—justly confident, as was proved by the result—to reduce the most rebellious into a proper state of submissiveness and docility, she yielded her blushing assent to become the blooming bride of Singleton Snippe, and to undertake the government of that insubordinate province, the state of man.
“I shall marry Mrs. Dawkins,” thought Snippe; but, alas! how mistakenly; “I shall marry her,” repeated he, “and, for a week or two, I’ll be as quiet as a lamb, sitting there by the fire a twiddling of my thumbs, and saying all sorts of sweet things about ‘lovey,’ and ‘ducky,’ and so forth. But as soon after that as possible, when I’ve found out how to get at the cash, then Mrs. Dawkins may make up her mind to be astonished a little. That dining-room of hers will do nice for suppers and card parties, and punch and cigars—we’ll have roaring times in that room, mind I tell you we will. I’ll have four dogs in the yard—two pinters, a poodle, and a setter; and they shall come into the parlor to sleep on the rug, and to hunt the cat whenever they want to. A couple of horses besides—I can’t do without horses—a fast trotter, for fun, and a pacer, for exercise; and a great many more things, which I can’t remember now. But Mrs. Dawkins has a deal to learn, I can tell her. There’s nothing humdrum about Singleton Snippe; and if she did henpeck my illustrious predecessors, she has got to find the difference in my case.”
So Snippe emphasized his hat plump upon his brow, and looked like the individual, not Franklin, that defied the lightning.
“And I shall marry Singleton Snippe,” also soliloquized Mrs. Dawkins, “who is described to me as one of the wildest of colts, and as being only in pursuit of my money. Well, I’m not afraid. A husband is a very convenient article to have about the house—to run errands, to call the coach, to quarrel with work-people, and to accompany me on my visits. Everybody ought to have a husband to complete the furniture; and as for his being a wild colt, as Mrs. Brummagem says, I should like to see the husband of mine who will venture to be disobedient to my will when he has to come to me for every thing he wants. I’ll teach Mr. Singleton Snippe to know his place in less than a week, or else Mr. Singleton Snippe is a very different person from the generality of men.”