Turned down the nearest street and went into a rum-shop; man followed me
in, and, as I was taking a "brandy-smash," he stepped up and asked me my
name; told him none of his business; asked me again; told him if he
didn't shut up I'd break his mouth.
He went off, and I returned to the field of battle and took into custody
a man with his head cut open, who was lying across the curb-stone; led
him to the Station House, and complained of him for breaking the peace.
Next day was summoned before the Mayor; thought I was going to receive a
public compliment for doing my duty, and perhaps get promoted--have my
salary raised--and presented with a medal.
Had never seen the Mayor; went into the room, and saw, sitting in the
big chair, the man who had asked me the day before what my name was,
whose mouth I had threatened to break, and who I now discovered was
Mayor Wood.
He asked me my name; didn't say anything about breaking his mouth _this_
time; he informed me that the city had no further occasion for my
services; hadn't any thing to say; took off my star, gave up my club,
and left the presence, resolved that if another man asks my name, to
tell him politely,
Q. K. PHILANDER DOESTICKS, P.B.
P. S.--I have just got a note, saying that my back salary will not be
paid. Shall sue the city, for I know that in the fighting business I did
my duty as an M. P. according to police usage from time immemorial.
What right has Mayor Wood to come in and upset ancient customs with his
new-fangled notions? He may go to thunder.
XXXIII.
Damphool Defunct--Place of his Exile--Description thereof--and Exit.
Sorrow is upon the heart, a heavy grief upon the soul, and a great
affliction in the home of me, Doesticks. My friend, the charm of my
chamber, the comforter of my lonely hours, the treasure of my heart, the
light of my eyes, the sunshine of my existence, the borrower of my clean
shirts and my Sunday pantaloons, the permanent clothing and fancy goods
debtor of my life, is no more.
My sack-cloth garment is not as yet complete, my tailor having
disappointed me; but dust and ashes lie in alternate strata, undisturbed
upon the head of me, Doesticks.
Weep with me, sympathizing world; bear a helping hand to lift away this
heavy load of sorrowful sorrow, of woeful woe, of bitter bitterness, of
agonizing agony, of wretched wretchedness, and torturing torture, which
now afflicts with its direful weight the head of me, Doesticks.
I grieve, I mourn, I lament, I weep, I suffer, I pine, I droop, I sink,
I despair, I writhe in agony, I feel bad.
_Damphool_ has departed this life.
He is buried, but he is not dead; he is entombed, but he is still alive.
After a metropolitan existence of a few months had partially relieved
him of his rural verdure; after having seen with appreciating eyes the
suburbs of a town which alone contains the entire and undivided
_elephant_, he has voluntarily exiled himself to a stagnant village in
the Western wilderness--a sleepily-ambitious little townlet, vainly, for
many years, aspiring to the dignity of cityhood, but which still remains
a very baby of a city, not yet (metaphorically speaking) divested of
those rudimentary triangular garments peculiar to weaklings in an
undeveloped state--without energy enough to cry when it is hurt, or
go-aheadism sufficient to keep its nose clean.
A somnambulistic town--for in spite of all the efforts made for its
glorification, it has obstinately refused to shake off its municipal
drowsiness.
A very Rip Van Winkle of a town, now in the midst of its twenty years'
nap, and which will arouse some time and find itself so dilapidated that
its former friends won't recognize it.
A town which actualizes that ancient fable of the hare and
tortoise--and, trusting in its capability of speed, has gone fast asleep
at the beginning of the course, only to awake some future day to the
fact that all its tortoise neighbors have passed it on the way, and it
has been distanced in the race, rather than be disturbed in its
comfortable snooze.
A very sepulchre of a town, into which, if a would-be voyager in the
stream of earnest life be cast away and stranded, he is as much lost to
the really _living_ world, as if he were embalmed with oriental spices,
and shelved away in the darkest tomb of the Pharaohs.
A town whose future greatness exists only in the imagination of its
deluded habiters, whose enterprise and public spirit are as fabulous as
the Ph[oe]nix.
A town which will never be a city, save in name, until telegraphs,
railroads, colleges, churches, libraries, and busy warehouses become
indigenous to the soil of the Wolverines, and spring like mushrooms from
the earth, without the aid of human mind to plan, or human will to urge
the work, or human hand to place one single stone.
For, sooner than this dormant town shall be matured into a flourishing
city by the men who now doze away their time within its sleepy limits,
the dead men of Greenwood shall rise from their mossy graves and pile
their marble monuments into a tradesman's market-house.
A town, where, in former days, some few short-sighted business men did
congregate, who commenced great stores, hotels and warehouses, and the
other tools by help of which the world does "_business_," but which said
men, too wise to remain faithful to a place which all their toil would
ever fail to permanently rouse from its persevering sleep, soon left for
ever, after, by united effort, they had galvanized it into a spasmodic
life, and taken advantage of its transient vitality to hastily sell
their property, before its slumber should come on again. These men are
now remembered by the great hotel their enterprise erected, and which is
to this day unfinished, and the warehouses (now deserted, save by rats,)
which they put up, and the other massive structure, the work on which
was going bravely on, until the drowsy genius of the place congealed the
energy of the founders, and left the unroofed walls and rotting timbers
a crumbling landmark in the desolate dearth, to show where another
business man was wrecked.
A rusty village which has not enterprise enough to keep its public
buildings in repair, and whose very Court-house, now in the last
decrepit years of a slothful life, has for years leaked dirty water on
the heads of the sleepy lawyers who burrow in its dingy lower rooms; and
which, in a soaking rain, could not boast a dry corner to protect the
dignified caput of the supreme judge from the aqueous visitation.
A town where every one is poorer than his neighbor, and no one man is
rich in this world's goods, save those few treacherous pilots, who,
being charged to guide the vessels of their fellows, have placed false
lights on hidden rocks, run the confiding craft to ruin, and fattened on
the plunder of the wreck.
A distant and remote extreme of the hurrying world, which is so
separated from the "heart of business" that no single drop of its vital
life ever reaches this defunct and amputated member.
A place where the inactivity and inertia of the people infects even the
animal and vegetable worlds; and the cows and pigs are too lazy to eat
enough to ensure their pinguitude, but drawl about the streets,
perambulating specimens of embodied animated laziness, displaying
through their skins their osseous economy.
Where the very trees don't leaf out till August and the flowers are too
backward to bloom till snow comes, and where the river itself, too lazy
to run down hill, sometimes from sheer indolence stops flowing, to take
a rest; dams itself up, and overflows the railroad.
Yet here has the late lamented Damphool resolved to bury himself,
establishing thereby an undisputed title to the expressive name he
bears; and I can only hope that in his exile some stray copy of this
book may be wrecked within his reach, that he may come to know the
present heartfelt lament of me, Doesticks.
I have ever tried, O mighty Damphool, to forgive thy faults and overlook
thy frailties!
Some have said that thou wert lazy, but such have never seen thee eat.
What though thou wert foppish to a degree.
I could forgive thy Shanghae coats, thy two-acre turn-down collars and
thy pantaloons so tight thou hadst to pull them on with boot-hooks; thy
gorgeous cravat, with its bow projecting on either side like a silken
wing; thy lemon-colored kids; thy cambric handkerchiefs, dripping with
compounds to me unknown; and thy blanket shawl, which made thee resemble
a half-breed Scotchman.
I could overlook the boarding-school-ism of the Miss Nancyish "Journal,"
filled with poetry rejected of the press, with unmeaning prose, with
dyspeptic complaints of hard fortune, or bilious repinings at thy lot,
and all the senseless silliness which thou didst inscribe therein.
I could endure the affected airs thou didst assume before the lady
boarders, that they might think and call thee _Poet_; the abstracted
air, the appearance of being lost in thought, and the sudden recovery of
thy truant wits with a spasmodic start; the shirt-collar loose at the
neck, and turned romantically down over the coat; the long hair brushed
back behind thy noticeable ears, to show thy "marble forehead."
I could admire that self-appreciation of personal charms which made thee
certain all the young ladies were smitten unto matrimony with thy
fascinations.
How faithful wert thou in thy gastronomical affections! how constant to
thy first love--fried oysters; and how attentive to the choice of thy
mature judgment--boiled turkey, with celery.
How unwavering in thy economy, never parting with a dime in charity, in
generosity, or in friendly gift, but only disbursing the same for a full
equivalent in the wherewithal to decorate the outer man, or gratify the
inner individual.
How consistent in thy devotion to music and the drama; always attending
the opera or theatre whenever generous friends would buy the tickets.
What an intense appreciation hadst thou of literature, always going fast
asleep over anything more substantial than the morning paper. How
fashionably sincere in all thy professions of piety, attending church on
Sunday, reading the responses when they could be easily found, and
sleeping through the sermon with as much respectability as any Church
member of them all; truly, most estimable Damphool, I shall greatly miss
thy intermittent religion.
How lovely wert thou in disposition, how amiable in manners; with what
an affectionate air couldst thou kick the match-boy out doors, box the
ears of the little candy-girl, and tell the more sturdy apple-woman to
go to the devil.
With what a charitable look couldst thou listen to the tale of the
shivering beggar child, could see the bare blue feet, and view the
scanty dress, while thy generous hand closed with a tighter grasp upon
the cherished pennies in thy pocket.
Anatomically speaking, friend Damphool, I suppose thou hadst a heart;
emotionally, not a trace of one; the feeble article which served thee in
that capacity knew no more of generous thoughts and noble impulses than
a Shanghae pullet knows of the opera of Norma.
Go, immerse thyself in that Western town where, like the rest who dwell
therein, thy abilities will be undeveloped, thy talents will be veiled,
thy energies rust out, and thou wilt become, like them, a perambulating,
passive, perpetual sacrifice to the lazy gods of Sloth and Sanctity.
I shall mourn thy taper legs; I shall lament thy excruciating neck-tie;
I shall weep that last coat that did so very long a tail unfold; I shall
sorrow for thy unctuous hairs, and grieve for thy perfumed whiskers.
I shall look in vain for thy polished boots and jeweled hands; I shall
miss thy intellectual countenance, radiant with innocent imbecility; and
I shall lose my daily meditation upon the precarious frailty of those
intangible legs.
But, ancient friend, when hereafter all the rustic maidens have yielded
their hearts before thy captivating charms; when thy manly beauty is
fully appreciated, and thy intellectual endowments acknowledged by the
world, deign to cast one condescending glance downward toward thy former
friend and perpetual admirer, and give one gracious thought of kind
remembrance to sorrowing, disconsolate me, Doesticks.
Damphool, thou art superlative--there is none greater.
Farewell! Henceforth, friendship to me is but a name, and I survive my
bereavement only to concentrate my affections upon my embryonic
whiskers. I remain inconsolable, till the bell rings for dinner.
[Illustration: The Wine Cellar near Cincinnati.]
XXXIV.
Keeping the Maine Law.
By the enduring perseverance of the lovers of cold water, laws have been
passed in most of the Western States forbidding the sale of those
beverages which make men rich, happy, dizzy, and drunk, all in the space
of half an hour; so that now a good horn is not, as formerly, to be
purchased at every corner grocery, and travellers are forced to carry a
couple of "drunks" in a willow-covered flask in their overcoat pocket.
The usual "bitters" are not forthcoming in the morning, and old topers
who have for years regularly paid their morning devotions to the
decanter or the black bottle, must now perforce become votaries of the
hydrant and the rain water barrel.
Not a few men have, within the last four months, drunk more water than
for years before, to the great astonishment of their stomachs, which
would, at first, almost rebel against the unusual visitor.
Many an habitual guzzler whose convivial habits have generally sent him
to bed at five o'clock every afternoon, has been amazed to discover what
a difference the new drink makes in the stability of the village
constituents; and it will be a matter of wonder to find that at four in
the afternoon the town is in comparatively the same situation it was in
the morning; that the tavern sign is _not_ over the shoe-maker's shop,
nor the horse-trough in the front-parlor; that the pump is in the street
instead of the church belfry, the confectioner's shop _not_ in the
livery stable, the livery horses _not_ in the bakery, the bakery _not_ a
hardware store, the hardware store _not_ full of shingles and building
stuff; that the poplar-trees in front of the minister's house are right
end up, and the flower-garden of the minister's wife is in a state of
ordinary propriety, with no snow-balls growing on the strawberry vines,
or strawberries on the lilacs; no blue-bells on the locust-trees,
violets on the currant bushes, or lilies in the onion-beds; that there
are no tulips on the pickets, and no moss-rose buds springing from the
shed,--and that the boy who waters the stage-coach horses every
afternoon as the clock strikes quarter to five, does _not_ lead them
tail first up the church lightning rod, and make them drink from the
ridge-pole, as he had always thought.
In short he finds a serious and sudden change in the world around him,
and that all the curious phenomena before mentioned and which formerly
were always present in the afternoon to his confused vision, immediately
after imbibing his seventeenth glass of rum and water, have ceased to
occur, and that every thing is now right side up, and front end foremost
to his ever before bewildered optics.
And not a few men who would be ashamed to own that they really care
anything for the drop of spirits which they occasionally take for the
"stomach's sake" will be seriously incommoded by this new stringency in
temperance principles; and the deacon or elder who in the privacy of his
closet kept a spiritual comforter of half pint dimension will miss, more
seriously than he would like to own, even to himself, this pious dram.
Longer faces and sourer tempers will be the result, and many a young
aspirant to church membership will be found deficient in necessary
Christian graces, which the charitable eyes of his thirsty examiners
might have found in abundance, had not the Maine Law interfered with the
generosity of their judgment, and made their vision less clear than
usual.
But these are things it will not do to speak of; only the gross
appetites of the three cent drinker should be made matters of common
conversation.
Travelling lately through the thirsty State of Ohio, I had many
opportunities of observing how they get round and over the letter of the
Law.
In that state the framers of the law, with a commendable regard for the
commercial welfare of their constituents, many of whom are large
vine-growers, inserted a special clause allowing the traffic in beer and
native wine to remain unmolested.
Travellers will therefore find in this State now a greater variety of
wine than is grown in any other one country in the world.
Liquors which he, in another place, would recognise as brandy, rum, or
gin, are partially disguised under transparent cognomens as native wine.
Brandy-"smashes," rum-punches, gin-cock-tails, sherry-cobblers,
mint-juleps, and every kind of desirable potable, are all manufactured
from "Longworth's Sparkling"--old corn-whiskey is known as "Still
Catawba"--and a vast deal of the "lager-beer" is put up in brandy
casks, and tastes exceedingly like the genuine article.
Being in the vicinity of the Pork city (where they have a ham on the top
of the tallest church spire in the place, pointing with the knuckle end
to Heaven,) I had an opportunity to visit a large wine-cellar which
belonged to Damphool's uncle, who was to accompany us, and had also from
him permission to taste the different vintages.
Got to the place, went down cellar, boy gave each of us a long stick
with a tallow candle on the end; got down; wine everywhere, in big
casks, in long bottles, in small bottles, in tin dippers, in glass
vials, and in little puddles on the floor.
Bottles ranged in regiments all wrong side up with cobwebs on the corks.
Every one had the year of the vintage painted on the bottom, as if it
was a British baby and its age had to be registered by the parish.
One cask was big enough to float a scow-boat or hold a common-sized
church if the steeple wasn't too tall.
Damphool senior wanted to get in and swim--was afraid he'd get corned
and couldn't get out, wouldn't let him try.
He would insist on getting on top of the reservoir--had a glass pump in
his hand--pumped up wine for every body--put the spout into his mouth,
and pumped into himself for an hour,--first fifteen minutes made him
rich; second quarter of an hour made him tearful; at the end of
forty-five minutes he was helpless but happy; and when the hour was up
he tumbled off the top of the machine and we stowed him away in a
corner, where he lay until he revived sufficiently to be able to partake
of some bread and butter which the Dutch housekeeper gave us, and which
he insisted was lobster salad, and kept calling for boiled eggs, olive
oil, and mustard to dress it with.
At last he was taken violently sick, and we took him out doors, set him
on top of a basswood stump, when he looked like "Patience on a monument
smiling"--although he tried to convince us that he was D. Webster, Esq.,
and insisted on making a speech to convince us that he "still lived."
Never before had I seen wine of such tremendous power. One of our party
was addressing a number of pint bottles alternately as "Fellow
citizens," "Gentlemen of the Jury," and "Ladies of the Committee."
Another had seated himself in a small puddle of Still Catawba on the
brick floor, and was calling out for soap, towels, and a black boy to
scrub his shoulders.
A third had emptied four bottles of "sparkling" into his vest-pockets to
take home to the children, and put the fragments of the glass into his
hat under the impression that they were hickory nuts, which he tried to
crack with the carriage lamps, evidently supposing them to be
nut-crackers.
My most intimate friend was trying to feed the horse some oats, by which
appellation he called a three-cornered harrow and a breaking-up plough,
and had filled the buggy with wild flowers, as he supposed, but which
were, in reality, two year old grape vines, which he had pulled up by
the roots.
Did not allow myself to become affected in like manner, as I had to
spend the evening with the family of one of the "solid men" of
Porkopolis, an ardent supporter of the Maine Law, who always keeps a
large variety of liquors in his cellars, and insists, whenever his
friends spend an evening with him, on making them pass their time
drinking whiskey-punch, with seven whiskeys to one water. Passed a
delightful evening, called the children by French names, mistook the
piano for the hat-rack, hung my hat on the harp-pedal, and laid my
gloves on the key-board. Met Damphool's uncle as I was going to the
hotel; he had brought home the glass-pump, thinking it was our
carriage-whip, but was otherwise sensible.
Is going to sell his vineyard, and turn teetotaler.
XXXV.
Theatricals once more.--Shakspeare darkeyized.--Macbeth in high colors.
In a street of the city, not more than four miles from the City Hall, in
humble imitation of the magnificent temples of the Drama erected by
ambitious managers in more pretentious portions of the town, the sable
portion of our population have also built an appropriate mansion wherein
is supposed to reside the dingy Genius of Ebony Theatricals.
A portrait of some sable Garrick adorns the drop curtain; a thick-lipped
lady of dark complexion on one side of the proscenium represents the
Goddess of Tragedy; and on the other a woolly-headed brunette in short
skirts is supposed to stand for the Goddess of Comedy.
What though the portrait of the African Roscius in the drop centre,
instead of Classic Roman robes, is attired in a swallow-tailed coat,
with brass buttons and a red velvet collar? and what if the two ladies
before mentioned are resplendent in sky-blue dresses and yellow turbans?
perhaps their unusual garb is quite as appropriate to the atmosphere of
the place, as the more elaborate, more classic, more costly, but
considerably less gaudy wardrobe allotted to corresponding divinities in
more fashionable Theatres.
The appointments generally at this place might not be considered very
tasteful by the "white trash," who get their ideas of propriety from
Wallack's or Burton's; but any impartial observer will admit that the
scenery is more creditable than the dirty green and brick-red
abomination of the Metropolitan, or the paint and canvas hash with Dutch
metal seasoning, which has been for years a standing dish at the
Broadway, and which is still served up nightly to a surfeited audience.
The female visitors who attend the delectable performances of the
talented corps of this colored establishment, do not make themselves
quite so ridiculous with their dress as their white competitors, but it
is only because they have not the money to be as fashionable; the desire
is probably fully as strong, but the cash don't hold out.
And as the white folks, in the construction of their pieces for dramatic
representation, sometimes represent in a peculiar light the warmer
blooded passions of their "dark complected" neighbors, in retaliation
the colored dramatists reverse the order and make the white men in their
drama wait upon the colored heroes, black their boots, groom their
imaginary horses, brush their coats, and perform all the varied round of
servile duties which in representatives of the same plays by white men
are assigned to them.
The play of Othello is the single exception--they make the Venetian
warrior a white man in a red roundabout, who makes fierce love to
Desdemona, who is the molasses-colored child of a respectable darkey
whitewasher.
Lorgnettes, Opera-hoods, and white kids are not exhibited here in such
profusion as in some other places of amusement; on the contrary, green
spectacles, sun-bonnets, and calico dresses are rather in the ascendant.
As a phase of city life which does not often turn its side to the
public, and as a place to enjoy an unlimited amount of fun for a little
money, the Church street colored Theatre is well worth visiting.
A grand Shakspearean festival was lately announced to come off here, on
which occasion the tragedy of Macbeth was to be performed with "all the
original music, new and gorgeous scenery, rich and elegant costumes,
magnificent scenic appointments, &c.," according to the time-honored
"gag" in such case made and provided.