"_The Uncles and Nephews._"
Ring up the curtain! Room there for the Boston Players. Let them
approach our presence, not as they appear upon the stage, in rouge, and
spangles, and wigs, and calves and cotton pad; but as they look in broad
daylight, or in the bar-room when the play is over, arrayed in garments
of a modern date, wearing their own personal faces, swearing their own
private oaths, and drinking real malt out of honest pewter, instead of
imbibing dusty atmosphere from pasteboard goblets. Room, I say!
There is an intimate connection between the press and the stage, that is
a congeniality of character, habit, taste, feeling and disposition,
between the writer and the actor. The press and the stage are, in a
measure, dependent on each other. The newspaper looks to the theatre for
light, racy and readable items, with which to adorn its columns, like
festoons of flowers gracefully hung around columns of marble. The
theatre looks to the newspaper for impartial criticisms and laudatory
notices. Show me a convivial party of actors, and I will swear there are
at least two or three professional writers among them. I know many
actors who are practical printers, fellows who can wield a
composing-stick as deftly as a fighting sword. Long life and prosperity
to the whole of them, say I; and bless them for a careless, happy,
pleasure-loving, bill-hating and beer-imbibing race of men. Amen.
There is one point of resemblance between the hero of the sock and
buskin and the Knight of the quill. The former dresses up his person and
adopts the language of another, in order to represent a certain
character; the latter clothes his ideas in an appropriate garb of words,
and puts sentiments in the mouths of his characters which are not always
his own. But I was speaking of the Boston Players.
Admitting the foregoing argument to be correct, it is not to be wondered
at that I became extensively acquainted among the members of the
theatrical profession. My name was upon the free list of every theatre
in the city; and every night I visited one or more of the houses--not to
see the play, but to chat in the saloons with the actors and literary
people who in those places most did congregate. After the play was over,
we all used to assemble in an ale-house near the principal theatre; and
daylight would often surprise us in the midst of our "devotions." A
curious mixed-up set we were to be sure! I will try to recollect the
most prominent members of our club. First of all there was the
argumentative and positive Jim Prior, who might properly be regarded as
President of the club. Then came H.W. Fenno, Esq., the gentlemanly
Treasurer of the National. He, however, seldom tarried after having
once "put the party through." The eccentric "Old Spear" was generally
present, seated in an obscure corner smoking a solitary cigar. Comical
S.D. Johnson and his hopeful son George were usually on hand to enliven
the scene; and so was Jim Ring, alias J. Henry, the best negro
performer, next to Daddy Rice, in the United States. Chunkey Monroe, who
did the villains at the National; and, towering above him might be seen
his cousin, Lengthy Monroe, who enacted the hard old codgers at the same
establishment. That fine fellow, Ned Sandford, must not be forgotten;
neither must Sam Lake, the clever little dancer. Rube Meer was
invariably to be found in company with a pot of malt; and he was usually
assisted by P. Jones, a personage who never allowed himself to be funny
until he had consumed four pints. Charley Saunders, the comedian and
dramatist, the author of "Rosina Meadows" and many other popular
plays--kept the "table in a roar," by his wit and also by his
excruciatingly bad puns. Bird, of "Pea-nut Palace" notoriety, held forth
in nasal accents to Bill Colwell, the husband of the pretty and
accomplished Anna Cruise. Big Sam Johnson, a heavy actor, a gallant
Hibernian and a splendid fellow, discussed old Jamaica with his friend
and boon companion, Sam Palmer, alias "Chucks." The mysterious Frank
Whitman captures his brother-actor at the Museum, Jack Adams, and
imprisoning him in a corner from which there was no escape, imparts to
him the most tremendous secrets. Ned Wilkings--one of the best reporters
in the city--tells the last "funny thing" to John Young; while Joe
Bradley, proprietor of the Mail, touches glasses with Jim McKinney.
Meanwhile, the two waiters, Handiboe and Abbott, circulate around with
the greatest activity, fetching on the liquors and removing the dirty
glasses, from which they slyly contrive to drain a few drops now and
then, for their bodily refreshment. As an instance of the "base uses" to
which genius may "come at last," I will state that Handiboe, whom we now
find in such a menial position, was once quite a literary character;
while poor Abbott, to whom I now throw a few small coins in charity, was
a setter of type. The rest of the party is made up of Pete Cunningham,
Sam Glenn, Bill Dimond, Jim Brand, Bill Donaldson, Dan Townsend, Jack
Weaver, Cal Smith, and a host of others whom it would puzzle the very
devil himself to remember.
Such was the "Uncle and Nephew Club," of which I had the honor to be a
prominent member. Almost every man belonging to it was a wit, a punster
or a humorist of some kind; and I will venture to say, that had some
industrious individual taken the pains to preserve and publish one-half
the good things that were said at our meetings, a large volume might be
formed that would be no contemptible specimen of genius. Whenever a
member had the audacity to perpetrate some shocking bad pun, and such
enormities were frequent, the offender was sentenced to undergo some
ludicrous punishment; and the utmost good-humor and hilarity always
prevailed.
I will now relate a rather amusing adventure in which I participated
with others of the "Uncles and Nephews."
One night we were assembled, as usual, at our head-quarters. The Fourth
of July was to "come off" the next day, and we determined to have some
fun. Accordingly, a couple of stout messengers were despatched to the
theatre, armed with the necessary authority and keys, and they soon
returned laden with dresses from the wardrobe. These garments the party
proceeded to assume; and we were quickly transformed into as
picturesque-looking a crowd as any that ever figured at a masquerade
ball. As for myself, I made a very tolerable representation of Falstaff;
while Richard, Othello, Macbeth, Hamlet, Shylock, and other gentlemen of
Shakespeare's creation, gave variety to the procession. Then there was a
clown in full circus costume, accompanied by Harlequin in his glittering
shape-dress. We sadly longed for a sprightly Columbine; but then we
consoled ourselves with Pantaloon, admirably rendered by P. Jones.
Our "music" consisted of a bass-drum, which was tortured by the clown; a
fish-horn beautifully played upon by Sam Palmer; a dinner-bell whose din
was extracted by Jack Adams. Having formed the procession on the
side-walk, the music struck up, and we marched.
Our first halting-place was at the saloon of Peter Brigham, at the head
of Hanover street. Here we filed in, and great excitement did our
extraordinary appearance create. A mob soon collected before the door,
attracted by our grotesque costumes as well as by the infernal noise of
our "musical" instruments, upon which we continued to perform with
undiminished vigor. Peter Brigham was in agonies, and rushed about the
saloon like an insane fly in a tar barrel. The frightened waiters
abandoned their posts and fled. The mob outside cheered vociferously;
and Harlequin began to belabor poor Pantaloon with his gilded lath to
the immense amusement of the spectators.
Peter Brigham at length mounted a chair, and said--
"Gentlemen, will you hear me? (Hoarse growl from the bass-drum.) I
cannot suffer this noise and racket to go on in my house. (Blast of
defiance from the fish-horn.) You know I have always tried to keep a
decent and respectable place. (Peal of sarcastic laughter from the
dinner bell.) I have a proposition to make.--(Hear! hear!) If you will
promise to leave the house quietly, I will treat you all to as much
champagne as you can drink." (Yell of acceptance from the bass-drum,
fish-horn and dinner-bell! Great excitement generally.)
The wine was produced, and the facility with which it was disposed of,
caused Mr. Brigham to stare. He endured its consumption, however, with
the most philosophical fortitude, until we began to drink toasts, make
speeches, and exhibit other indications of a design on our part to
"tarry yet awhile." Peter then reminded us of our promise; and, as
gentlemen of honor, we fulfilled the same by immediately falling into
procession and marching out of the saloon. Away we went down Hanover
street, followed by the admiring and hooting crowd. We entered the
establishment of Theodore Johnson, and were hospitably received by the
prince of good fellows, who, assisted by Chris Anderson, "did the
honors" with the utmost liberality. Sam Palmer and P. Jones, here
favored the company with a broad-sword combat; after which I, as
Falstaff, gave a few recitations--the performances concluded with Abbott
as _Jocks_, the Brazilian ape. Our next visit was to the Pemberton
House, then under the control of Uriah W. Carr, a very small man, both
physically and morally. Uriah received us very churlishly, and
peremptorily refused to "come down" with the hospitality of the season.
He was particularly down on me for having once written and published
some verses concerning him. The following is all that I can recollect of
that interesting production:--
"Tis comical, indeed it is
To see him mix a punch--
He puts two drops of liquor in,
And then he eyes the _lunch_;
He struts about most pompously,
Then stands before the fire,
Just like a little bantam-cock,
This comical Uriah!"
Inasmuch as Uriah refused to bring on the "bush" for either love or
money, we determined to help ourselves. Therefore, every man appointed
himself a bar-keeper _pro tem_. Wines, liquors and cigars were disposed
of with marvelous celerity, and poor little Uriah danced about and tore
his hair in the agony of his spirits. Meanwhile, a large number of
actors and others, boarding at the Pemberton, joined us, being ushered
in by Charles Dibden Pitt, a performer of great elegance and power, then
playing a brilliant star engagement--at the Museum. This gentleman is
decidedly "one of the boys," and goes in for a "good time." At his
suggestion, a committee was appointed to descend to the kitchen and
bring up provisions. Ned Abbot and Bill Ball performed this duty in the
most admirable and satisfactory manner. They departed for the lower
regions, and soon returned laden both with substantials and delicacies.
Then, such a feast!--or, rather, such a banquet! Champagne flowed like
water, for we had discovered a closet filled with baskets of the foaming
beverage. The whole company was of course soon in a state of glorious
elevation. The song and jest went round unceasingly, and peals of jovial
laughter trooped away like merry elves upon the midnight air. We were in
excellent humor to adopt the prayer of the following who said--
"Oh, let us linger late to-night,
Nor part while wit and song are bright;
And, Joshua, make the sun stand still,
That we of joy may have our fill!"
There was one gentleman who refused to participate in the festivities of
the occasion. This was little Uriah, the landlord, who gazed upon the
progress of the banquet with a troubled brow; yet he did not dare to
openly remonstrate, through fear of offending Mr. Pitt, and other
valuable boarders.
Unfortunately for the harmony of the festival, a party of drunken
students from Cambridge dropped in, and I instantly saw that a row was
inevitable. After unceremoniously helping themselves to drink, the
students gazed at our strange-looking company superciliously, and one of
them remarked with a sneer--
"What fools are these, dressed up in this absurd manner? Oh, they must
be monkies, the property of some enterprising organ-grinder. Let them
dance before me, for my soul is heavy, and I would be gay!"
Here little Billy Eaton, the writer, who was one of our party, fired up
and obligingly offered to fight and whip the man with the heavy soul,
for and in consideration of the trifling sum of one cent. This handsome
offer was accepted; but, before the gentlemen could strip for the
combat, a general collision took place between all the hostile parties.
Chairs were brandished, canes were flourished and decanters were hurled,
to the great destruction of mirrors and other fragile property. The bar
was overturned, and the din of battle was awful to hear. Notwithstanding
the uproar and confusion that prevailed, I could not help noticing poor
Uriah, who, in the dimly-lighted hall, was quietly dancing an insane
polka, accompanying his movements by low howls of despair. The little
man had temporarily lost his few wits, that was plain. The combat raged
with undiminished fury. Our clown attacked a student with his bass-drum,
one end of which burst in, imprisoning the representative of the seat of
learning, who found it impossible to extricate himself from his musical
predicament. Sam Palmer, with his fish-horn, did tremendous execution;
while Jack Adams was equally effective with his dinner-bell which, at
every blow, sounded forth a note of warning. The heroic P. Jones
performed prodigies of valor, and covered himself with glory. This
wonderful young man, having planted himself behind a rampart of chairs,
placed himself in the position of a pugilistic frog, and boldly defied
his enemies to "come on and be punched." At the commencement of the
fight, Abbott coiled himself up under the table, and was seen no more;
while Handiboe fled for safety to the cole-hole. The battle was at its
height, and the bird of victory seemed about to perch upon the banner of
the "Uncles and Nephews," when some reckless, hardened individual turned
off the gas, thus producing total darkness. This made matters ten times
worse than ever, for it was impossible to distinguish friends from foes.
Suddenly, in rushed a posse of watchmen, headed by the renowned Marshal
Tukey, and bearing torches. Many of the combatants were arrested, and
but few contrived to make their escape. I had the honor of figuring
among the unlucky ones; and, with my companions passed the night in
durance vile. In the morning, when day light feebly penetrated our
gloomy dungeon, what a strange-looking spectacle presented itself!
Stretched upon the floor in every imaginable picturesque attitude, were
about a score of men, the majority of them arrayed in the soiled and
torn theatrical dresses. These unhappy individuals afforded a most
melancholy sight, as many of them had black eyes, bruised noses and
battered visages.
"D----d pretty fools we've made of ourselves," said Macbeth, one of
whose optics had been highly discolored.
"Yes," groaned Othello, whose black eyes were only partially concealed
by the yellow color which he had smeared over his face--"and here we are
in the jug, where we shall be compelled to remain all day, and lose all
the fun of the Fourth of July."
"That isn't the worst of it," sighed Hamlet, whose royal frontispiece
had received severe damage--"I am on the bills to play twice this
afternoon and once this evening, and my being absent will cause me to be
_forfeited_, if not discharged. D----n those college students! What the
devil became of them? They all got clear, I suppose."
"No," said I--"they are in a separate apartment. Of course the officers
would not put them in with us, for that would be encouraging a renewal
of the fight."
"My head aches horribly," remarked Richard, Duke of Gloster--"I would
give my kingdom for a drink!"
"And I," observed Shylock--"would like a pound of flesh, providing it
were beefsteak, for I am almost famished."
"Hah! what a hog!" growled Cardinal Richelieu, one side of whose face
had been "cove in" most dreadfully--"to think of _eating_ at such a time
as this!"
"Hark," said Claude Melnott, whose handsome countenance had been knocked
completely out of shape, and who looked as if he had just returned from
the wars rather the worse for wear; "hark! Don't you hear the sound of
artillery, and of music? The ceremonies and festivities of the glorious
day have commenced. Would to Heaven that I were with Pauline, in our
palace on the lake of Como!"
"Dry up, you fool!" angrily exclaimed the aged and venerable King Lear,
whose nasal organ exhibited signs of its having sustained a violent
contusion--"I haven't closed an eye during the whole night, and now you
keep me awake with your infernal jabbering. Shut up, I say!"
"Oh, shut up be blowed!" said P. Jones--"how can a man shut up when he
thinks of the good _budge_ (rum) he loses by being shut up here? Rube
Meer, isn't this too bad?"
"Worse than the time when I sent on a fishing excursion with Jim Morse,"
groaned poor Rube, as he fumbled in his pocket for a match with which to
light his pipe, "has anybody got a rope with which a fellow could
contrive to hang himself?"
"I say, Jack Adams," said Sam Palmer, who was dressed as Don Caesar de
Bezas, "what will Harry Smith and old Kimball say, when we don't make
our appearance to-day, the busiest day in the whole year?"
"I care not," replied Jack, as he fondly pressed the portrait of his
Katy to his lips, "so long as this blessed consolation is left me, the
world may do its worst! Frown on, ye fiends of misfortune! I defy ye
all, so long as my Katy Darling remains but true!"
"That's the one!" shouted the bold Dick Brown, as "usher" at the
National Theatre, "let us have the song of Katy Darling, and all join in
the chorus."
This was done; and from the depths of that gloomy dungeon rolled forth
the words, in tones of thunder--
"Did they tell thee I was false, Katy Darling?"
Suddenly, to our great joy, the ponderous iron door of the dungeon was
unlocked and thrown open, and an officer announced that he had orders to
release us all, provided that we would engage to satisfy the landlord of
the Pemberton House for the damage he had sustained. This we of course
agreed to do, it being understood that the college students should be
compelled to pay one-half the amount, which was certainly no more than
right, as they had perpetrated half the damage, and had commenced the
row in the first place. The landlord having received sufficient
security that his damages would be made whole, we were all set at
liberty, to our most intense delight, for we had anticipated being
imprisoned during the whole of that glorious day.
We left the house of bondage, and, as we passed through the already
crowded streets, our fantastic dresses and strange appearance generally,
collected a mob at our heels, which, in broad daylight, was certainly
rather annoying. However, we soon reached the theatre, and resumed our
own proper habiliments.
It was announced upon the bills of the theatre that a certain actor
would that evening deliver an original Fourth of July poem. That poem I
had engaged to write, yet not a single line had I committed to paper.
The actor was in a terrible quandary, and swore that his failure to
recite the poem, as announced, would render him unpopular with the
public and ruin him forever. Telling him to keep cool and call again in
two hours, I sat down to my writing-desk and dashed off a poem of
considerable length. My pen flew with the rapidity of lightning, words
and ideas crowded upon me in overwhelming numbers, and in three-quarters
of an hour my work was done! I sent for the actor who was astonished at
the brief space of time in which I had performed the task. Having heard
me read the poem, he declared himself to be delighted with it; and, with
all due humility and modesty, I must say that the production did possess
considerable merit. I had avoided the usual stereotyped allusions to the
"star spangled banner," to the "Ameri-eagle," to the "blood of our
forefathers," &c.;--and had dwelt principally upon the sublime moral
spectacle afforded by an oppressed people arising in their might to
throw off the yoke of bondage and assert their independence as a nation.
The actor soon committed the poem to memory; and, having rehearsed it
over to me and found himself perfect, he departed. That night he recited
it from the stage to a dense audience; and, during its delivery and at
its conclusion, I had the satisfaction of listening to the most
delicious music that an author's ears can ever know, the clapping of
hands, and deafening peals of applause.
CONCLUSION
_My Parting Bow._
Several years have passed since the date of the events last narrated.
Those years have been crowded with adventures full as extraordinary as
those already detailed; but alas! neither time nor space will at
present, admit of my giving them to the public. Perhaps, at some future
time, I may make up for this deficiency, if my life is spared.
The reader may rest assured of one thing:--that _not one single word of
fiction or exaggeration has been introduced into these pages_. Why
should I wander in the realms of romance, when there are more startling
facts at my command than I can possibly make use of? Is not truth
stranger than fiction? Every day's experience proves such to be the
case.
I cannot close up these pages without availing myself of the opportunity
to return my thanks in this public manner, to several gentlemen from
whom I have received courtesies and acts of kindness. First and
foremost, there is Jerry Etheridge, a man of great political influence
and historical learning. To this distinguished gentleman I am indebted
for an act of generosity that rescued me from a serious embarrassment. I
am not the only recipient of his bounty, for I know many others who have
applied to him in times of need, and who have left him, encouraged by
his cheering words and relieved by his liberality. He is one of those
true philanthropists who never publish their good deeds to others. I
consider that when one man befriends another and then tells of it, all
obligation ceases to exist between the parties, and no gratitude is due
the one who confers the benefit, which he bestows, perhaps just on
purpose to acquire a reputation for whole-souled benevolence, and not
out of any particular good-will to the other. I am also under obligation
to Mr. W.R. GOODALL, the promising young American actor, who will one
day, I predict, occupy a most elevated position in the profession which
he has adopted, and for which he is peculiarly qualified. Who that ever
heard his famous imitations, as Jeremiah Clip, will hesitate to admit
that he is a young man of the most extraordinary talent? NED SANDFORD
and JIM LANERGAN, both of whom are now while I write this, playing at
the Broadway Theatre, I return my most sincere thanks for favors
received; and I trust that they will pardon me for making this public
allusion to them. Finally, to every person who has, through
disinterested motive, treated me with kindness and consideration, I
would say--friends, your goodness shall never be forgotten while life
remains.
I have many bitter enemies, and they will, I presume, continue to snarl
at my heels like mongrel curs. Their miserable attempts to injure me
will only rebound back upon themselves. I am above the reach of their
malignity, and shall pursue my own independent course regardless of
their spleen.
Nearly one year has now elapsed since I left Boston--a place that I
cannot but regard with some degree of affectionate remembrance; for,
with all its faults, I like it still.
It is possible that I may hereafter continue to write tales for the
public amusement. Should I conclude to continue in my business as a
writer, I shall always, as heretofore, labor to produce that which is
interesting, exciting and founded on truth, and entirely unobjectionable
in a moral point of view. Unlike many so-called writers who throw off a
quantity of trash and care not how it fills up space, I am always
willing to bestow time and toil upon my work, for the sake of my own
credit, for the purpose of securing the rapid and extensive sale of the
book--and in order to give the public perfect satisfaction.
Reader, fare thee well! We may never meet again; but I thank thee for
accompanying me from the beginning to
THE END