that Mr. R. Percy Delancy Blobb is now before you in the person of
myself, and I am here to-night to ask forgiveness, which, if you don't
give to me, I shall take immediate measures to expel you all from the
club."
It was immediately voted that Mr. Quackenbush be forgiven, on condition
that he would disclose the facts which led to his being found a prisoner
in the Essex Market Police Court.
This, Mr. Quackenbush said he would do and do it now, and after finding
room for a glass of ginger-wine, proceeded to narrate his experience.
He stated, substantially, that the whole difficulty grew out of a love
affair. He had become deeply infatuated with an unknown and beautiful
blonde. He had often met her in the street, in theatres, and
concert-rooms, and his intense admiration ripened into a deep love. He
was unable to learn who she was until a fortnight previously, when he
found a friend who was well acquainted with her, and who undertook to
bring about an introduction. Things wore a brighter aspect then. The sun
was more brilliant; the moon shed a less melancholy light; lager bier
tasted better; oysters appeared fatter; peanuts seemed always roasted
just enough, and, in fact, he felt quite satisfied with life, and the
world generally, and resolved to postpone indefinitely a purpose he had
entertained of buying three cents' worth of arsenic. But a day or two
before the scene in the Police Court in which he figured, he found
himself in a stage, and directly opposite was the identical object of
his admiration and affection. He hitched from one side on his seat to
the other; put one leg on the other, and then reversed them; looked out
of the window, and then at her; scratched his ears; pulled up his
collar; brushed the dust from his pantaloons; put his hands in his
pockets; pulled them out, and did many ridiculous things which he would
not have done had she not been present. She stopped the stage on one of
the avenues, and handed him a five-franc piece to pay the driver. The
driver, as usual, gave change in small pieces. He counted it to see that
it was all right; found it to be so, and informed her of the fact. The
streets being very muddy, he resolved to do the genteel in the way of
assisting her out of the vehicle; made his exit; put one foot six inches
into a mud-hole, and the other on the edge of the curb-stone; lifted the
lady to the sidewalk in safety, at the expense of bursting off two
suspender-buttons, and his vest-buckle, a slip down causing his nose to
fall against the tire, his knees into the mud, his shoulder against the
stage-steps, and caving in his hat. But all this didn't trouble him in
the least, as he expected to be more than remunerated by an approving
smile on the part of the lady. He turned his face towards her, and
found her engaged in counting the change, which he had pronounced to be
all right, as if she suspected that he would be guilty of cheating her
out of a stray sixpence, and thus hazard his chances for salvation. The
effect of the disappointment, on him, was frightful. He felt a sickening
sensation; stopped at the nearest whisky-shop, and imbibed; went to
another, and took a nip; proceeded to a third, and smiled; reached a
fourth, and took a horn; entered a fifth, and drank, and so on, _ad
libitum_. At last he reached Niblo's; saw a flaming poster announcing
that Louisa Pyne was to sing in the "Crown Diamonds;" bought a ticket;
took several drinks and a seat. His ears had become unusually critical.
Thought he could beat Harrison singing, and to satisfy himself, he rose
up, and commenced to slaughter a piece, which Harrison had just
executed. There was an evident want of appreciation of his abilities,
for he was hustled out in double-quick time. He then went to a bar-room,
and called for something to drink, which deliberate act was the last
circumstance he remembered, previous to recognizing Mr. Spout in his
room in the afternoon of the following day, when he inquired of that
gentleman if he wouldn't be so kind as to prevent the nigger boy from
striking him on the head with a poker, as he thought he had done it long
enough.
A vote of forgiveness to Mr. Quackenbush was carried, after which the
entire club went to sleep.
"The Hamlet Night."
"Murder most foul, as in the best it is;
But this most foul, strange, and unnatural."
[Illustration]
A few days after the events recorded in the last chapter, a new trick
was invented to obtain under, false pretences, the money of the public.
A number of needy and seedy individuals having been told that in England
several of the most distinguished literary men in that country had
given a few theatrical exhibitions with great success, conceived the
plan of exhibiting, in a similar manner, in the city of New York, a
number of authors, artists and other celebrities, admitting the public
at twenty-five cents per head. That it might look less like a humbug,
and by way of hiding, as far as possible, the swindle which was only too
transparent, after all, it was announced that the living poets and
painters would be shown all alive in secure cages, undergoing a
periodical stirring-up by the keeper, and being benevolently fed in the
presence of the spectators afterward.
Preparations had been made to secure the services of the biggest
authors, the most notorious painters, the largest sized sculptors, the
most melodious poets, and the most sanguinary editors the country could
produce. The anxious world expected nothing less than to see the author
of "Thanatopsis" appear as _Hamlet_ in black-tights and a slouched
hat--and he who invented "Evangeline" and "Hiawatha" come on as the
_Ghost_ with a pasteboard helmet and a horse-hair beard. Who should be
_Laertes_ but he who "skulped" the Greek Slave, or what editor could
play "the king" like the democratic conductor of the _Tribune_? who, in
assuming the crown, was to doff the white hat, "positively for one
night only?" The _Queen of Denmark_ would of course be represented by
the architect of "Uncle Tom's Cabin," whose familiarity with courts and
royalty would enable her to invest the character with life-like
interest. The public had made up its mind to be content with no
_Ophelia_ except Ruth Hall, for no one else could play the crazy scenes
so admirably. But alas for the expectations of the misguided public--the
illustrious individuals aforesaid would not come, and consequently the
public were compelled to witness the consummation of the dreadful
tragedy, by authors whose works they had never heard of; painters whose
productions were unknown to the world, and editors whom a close
investigation resolved into obscure scribblers.
To this literary exhibition Overdale, Wagstaff, and John Spout resolved
to go--Overdale to give the necessary explanations, Wagstaff to make a
transcript of his friend's valuable remarks, and John Spout (himself an
amateur artist) to see the celebrated men of his own profession, whose
contributions to art had been so persistently kept out of sight.
The performance was to take place in the Academy of Music, a building
designed and completed by a diabolically ingenious architect, who
endeavored to construct a theatre in such a manner that one half the
audience could not hear, and the other half could not see, and who
succeeded to admiration.
Our friends obtained seats in that part of the house where they could
see, though it was not possible to _hear_ a word.
After a great many preliminary flourishes and false starts by the
members of the orchestra, they set off as nearly together as they could,
in obedience to the frantic gestures of the leader, who flourished his
fiddle-bow with as much energy and vindictiveness as if he had been
insanely endeavoring to kill mosquitoes with it, in forty different
directions at once.
Finally the curtain went up amid the uproarious applause of the
assembled multitude, interrupted only by a small boy in the gallery, who
hissed like a whole flock of enraged wild-geese, having been stationed
there especially for the performance of this sibilant duty by an
avenging washerwoman, to whom one of the amateurs owed four and
sixpence; his dissenting voice was, however, soon hushed by the police,
who put him out, and didn't give him his money back, after which the
exhibition proceeded.
To give a full description of one half of the ridiculous performances
indulged in by these deluded persons--to tell of the new readings which
they gave, and the old readings which they didn't give--to relate how
carefully they avoided the traps, and with what commendable caution they
kept away from the footlights--to give an idea of the bedlamitish
ingenuity they had displayed in the selection of wardrobe, how each one
had put on the most inappropriate articles imaginable, and how they
could not have been more incongruously attired if they had been all
dressed in sheep's grey breeches and straw hats--to dilate upon the
disasters which befell the said wardrobe, how the tunics caught in the
wings, and the shoulder-cloaks got singed by the side-lights; how the
ladies' trains were in everybody's way, and their feathers in
everybody's eyes--how, in their confusion, when they painted their
faces, they put the wrong colors in the wrong places, and some of them
went on with white cheeks, chalked lips, and eyebrows colored a bright
vermilion--how the gilt crowns got bent and battered until they looked
like ancient milk-pans with the bottoms melted out--how the flannel
ermine on the regal calico robes got greasy, and looked like tripe--how
the wax pearls melted and the glass ones broke--how the "supes" painted
their whiskers uneven, and got their wigs on wrong side before--how some
of them couldn't get their armor on at all, but how one enterprising
individual, having succeeded to his satisfaction, came on to deliver a
message, with his sandals in his hand, his helmet on one foot, his
breast-plate on the other, and his leg-pieces strapped on his
shoulders--to tell how the _Ghost_ got chilly and played the last scene
in an overcoat, and proved that he was a substantial Native American
Ghost, by making two extemporaneous speeches, in excellent English, to
the audience--to do full justice to the miscellaneous assortment of
_legs_, then and there congregated, and relate how some were bow-legs,
and some were shingle-legs, some were broomstick-legs, some were wiry
legs, and some were shoulder-of-mutton legs--to give an accurate
relation of the various expedients resorted to, to remedy the most
noticeable defects in those legs, and state that some were padded on the
sides, and some at the ankles, and how, in not a few instances, the
padding slipped away from its original position, thereby putting the
calves on the shins, and causing the knees to resemble deformed
india-rubber foot-balls--and to give a reliable history of the
unheard-of antics indulged in by the said fantastic legs, after their
symmetry had been perfected by the means just written--how some went
crooked, some sideways, and some wouldn't go at all; how some minced
with short steps, like a racking pony, and others stepped along as if
they had seven-league boots on; how some moved with convulsive hitches,
as if they were clockwork legs, and the springs were out of order; how
some worked spasmodically up and down in the same place, and didn't get
along at all, as if they were legs which had struck for higher wages;
and how others dashed ahead, as if they did not intend to stop until
they had transported their bewildered proprietors out of sight of the
audience, as if they were machine legs, with the steam turned on, and
weights on the safety-valve; how some went on the stage and wouldn't go
off, and how others went off and wouldn't go on, until they were coaxed
on by their agonized owners, a long time after the cue came--to tell how
the red fire burned green, and the blue fire would not burn at all--how
the call-boy got tipsy, and was not forthcoming--how the property-man
fell over the sheet-iron thunder, and stuck his head into a pot of red
paint, which made him look like a modern edition of Charles the First
with his head cut off--how the grave-diggers got into the grave and
couldn't get out--how _Hamlet_ and _Laertes_ could hardly get in at
all; and how, when they did get in, they made the gravel fly--how the
wrong men came on at the wrong time, and how, as a general thing, the
right men didn't ever come on--how _Guildenstern_ spoke _Ophelia's_
lines, how _Horatio_ tried to speak one of Hamlet's speeches, and danced
a frantic hornpipe with rage because he couldn't think how it began, and
how _Polonius_ couldn't speak at all, and so went home--how nobody could
remember what Shakspeare said, and so everybody said what Shakspeare
didn't say, and hadn't said, and wouldn't have said, under any
circumstances--how some of the men swore, and some of the women wanted
to, but postponed it, and how the butchery proceeded, with many mishaps
and multitudinous mistakes, and how the audience applauded, and cheered,
and laughed at the dismal tragedy, evidently considering it the
liveliest farce of the season, are facts, falsehoods, and circumstances,
both real and supposititious, which could not be compressed within the
limits of a single volume.
Hamlet was personated by an aspiring youth, whose physical dimensions
were not up to the army standard, and who couldn't have gathered fruit
from a currant-bush without high-heeled boots on; while the lady who
represented his mother would have been compelled to stoop in order to
pick pippins from the tallest apple-tree that ever grew. By the side of
her illustrious son, she looked perfectly capable of taking him up in
her arms, giving him his dinner after the usual maternal fashion, and
afterwards disposing of him in the trundle-bed, to complete his infant
slumbers.
Overdale explained that they had tried to get a bigger _Hamlet_, but
that, upon the whole, he thought the little fellow would "speak his
piece" pretty well, taking into consideration the fact, that in the
dying groans, he was supposed to have no superior.
Wagstaff was totally ignorant of the plot, and as from the obfuscation
of the performers, no one could have formed the slightest idea of what
they were all talking about, he seemed in no very fair way to find out
anything about it.
The peculiar rendition of the story of the King of Denmark was so
uncertain, that even John Spout found it exceedingly difficult to tell
where they were or how they would come out, or what they intended to do
next. He was a little uncertain whether the queen would finally subdue
_Hamlet_, or _Hamlet_ succeed in thrashing the queen. In the closet
scene, especially, the battle was conducted with such varying success
that it was impossible to bet, with any kind of certainty, on the
result, or to prognosticate, with reliability, whether _Hamlet_ would
knock his mother down with a chair, and damage her maternal countenance
with the heels of his boots, or whether the old lady would succeed in
_her_ design, which was evidently to conquer her rebellious offspring,
and give him a good spanking. Neither could he tell whether _Laertes_
would kill _Horatio_, _Hamlet_, or the _Second Grave-digger_, who stood
behind the wing, with his hands in his pockets, and his breeches in his
boots. He was also a little undecided as to which was _Polonius_, and
which was the king, and when the player queen came on, he thought it was
only _Ophelia_, with a different-colored petticoat on. John swore the
_Ghost_ looked as if he hadn't had any dinner, and said he was perfectly
certain his ghostship had been refreshing his invisible bowels with a
mug of ale, behind the scenes, because when he came on the last time,
with the broomstick in his hand, he could see the foam on his whiskers.
One of the richest and most incomprehensible scenes ever witnessed on
the modern stage was the final one between _Hamlet_ and the _Ghost_,
who, finding the weather chilly, had done his best to mitigate his
sufferings by putting on an overcoat. _Hamlet_, trying to look fierce,
holding his sword at arm's length, performing a kind of original
fancy-dance, as he followed the spiritual remains of his ghostly father
across the stage--_Hamlet_, the mortal, being about the size of a
mutton-ham, while his father, the immortal, supposed to be exceedingly
ethereal, was tall enough and stout enough for a professional
coal-heaver, instead of an amateur ghost--the intangible spirit,
moreover, having one hand in his overcoat pocket, to keep his fingers
warm, while in the other he flourished a short broomstick, as if to keep
his degenerate scion at a respectful distance, were so ludicrous, that
John Spout seized Wagstaff's book, and produced the sketch to be found
at the beginning of this chapter.
And in the last death-scene _Hamlet_ really won such honors as were
never before accorded to mortal tragedian; being by this time a little
doubtful whom to kill, he made an end of the entire company in rotation.
First, he stabbed the _King_, who rolled over once or twice, and died
with his legs so tangled up in the _Queen's_ train that _she_ had to
expire in a hard knot; then he stabbed _Laertes_, who died cross-legged;
then he stabbed _Osric_; and not content with this, he tripped up his
heels and stood on his stomach, till he died in an agony of indigestion;
then he tried to stick _Horatio_, but only succeeded in knocking his
wig off; and then, turning up stage, made extensive preparations for
terminating his own existence.
First, as everybody was dead, and everybody's legs were lying round
loose, he had to lay them out of the way carefully, so as not to
interfere with the comfort of the corpses; then he picked up all the
swords and laid them cautiously in a corner, so that the points
shouldn't stick in him when he fell; then he looked up at the curtain to
see that he was clear of that, then he looked down at the traps to see
that he was clear of them, and having at last arranged everything to his
satisfaction, he proceeded to go systematically through his dying
agonies, to the great satisfaction of the audience. Suffice it to say,
that when the spasms were ended, and he had finally become a "cold
corpus," his black tights were very dirty and had holes in the knees.
When the curtain went down _Hamlet_ was too exhausted to get up, and
instantly everybody rushed to the rescue; those he had slaughtered but a
few minutes before, forgot their mortal wounds, and hastened to the
murderer with something to drink. The _King_ rushed up with a pewter mug
of beer; _Horatio_ presented the brandy-bottle; the _Ghost_ handed him a
glass of gin and sugar; the _Queen_ gave him the little end of a
Bologna sausage and a piece of cheese; the stage carpenter, in his
bewilderment, could think of nothing but the glue-pot; the property man
hastened to his aid with a tin cup full of rose-pink, and a plate-full
of property apple-dumplings (ingeniously but deceptively constructed out
of canvas and bran), while an insane scene-shifter first deluged him
with water, and then offered him the bucket to dry himself with.
[Illustration]
John Spout, who had been behind the curtain, and witnessed this last
performance, immediately came out, borrowed Wagstaff's notebook, and
left therein his pictorial reminiscence of this scene as follows:
Overdale had been profuse in his explanations of the many curious
scenes, and Wagstaff had noted down his words carefully in his
memorandum-book. Once when the _Ghost_ tripped and fell through the
scenery, caving in the side of a brick house, and kicking his spiritual
heels through the belfry of a church in the background, Overdale said
that this was _Ophelia_, who had been taken suddenly crazy, and in her
frenzy had imagined it necessary to hasten to the nearest grocery for a
bar of soap to saw her leg off with. _Polonius_, he explained, was
_Horatio_, and _Hamlet_ was a little boy who run on errands for the cook
of the palace, by which culinary appellation he designated the Queen of
Denmark. He said the plot of the piece was, that the king wanted to
marry the cook, but her relatives objected to the alliance, because his
majesty hadn't got shirts enough for a change.
All of which was carefully written down by Wagstaff, with divers
alterations, emendations, additions, and extemporaneous illustrations,
by John Spout.
This last-named individual asserts to the present time that he cannot
tell who were the most humbugged--the people who paid their money, and
laughed at the play under the impression that it was a farce, or the
unfortunates who performed the play, laboring under the hallucination
that they were acting tragedy.
All were, however, satisfied, that it was a kink of the Elephant's tail,
which he has not yet uncurled in any city of America--save Gotham.
MRS. THROUGHBY DAYLIGHT'S FANCY DRESS JAM.
"Black spirits and white,
Red spirits and grey,
Mingle, mingle"----
MR. Remington Dropper had a great respect for upper tendom; was almost
inclined to admit, without question, its claims to the worship of the
vulgar masses, and confessed that when he saw one whom he took to be a
leader of fashion coming, he felt an involuntary movement of his right
hand towards his hat. He admitted that he had, by this manner of doing
indiscriminate homage to well-dressed people, on several occasions taken
off his hat to notorious horse-jockeys, faro-dealers, and gamblers.
"However," said John Spout, "if you want to go to a grand fancy dress
ball, where you will meet all 'the world,' as these try-to-be-fashionable
people call those who have scraped together dollars enough to entitle them
to their royal notice, I can very easily get you an invitation. Mrs.
Throughby Daylight, whose husband made a fortune by selling patent
medicine, and thereby purged himself of poverty and plebeianism together,
gives, in a short time, a grand fantasquerade, which is intended to be
the most consolidated fancy dress jam of the season. Do you want to go?"
"Go," replied Dropper, "how can I go? I don't know Mrs. Throughby
Daylight, or Mr. Throughby Daylight, or any of the Daylights, so that
Daylight is all moonshine."
"Dropper," was the response, "you're young; I excuse that, for you can't
help it; but you're also _green_, which I cannot forgive; your verdancy
is particularly noticeable when you revive the absolute absurdity of
supposing that it is necessary to be acquainted with a lady before you
are invited to attend her parties. That antiquated idea has been long
since exploded. Why, my dear sir, it is no more necessary that you
should have ever previously heard of a woman whose 'jam' you receive an
invitation to attend, than it is probable she knows who _you_ are, or
where the devil you come from."
Dropper was bewildered.
"It is a positive fact," continued Spout. "Why, bless your innocent
eyes, a woman of fashion no more knows the names of the individuals who
attend her grand party, than she knows who took tea last night with the
man in the moon. She merely orders music and provisions, makes out a
list of a few persons she _must_ have, has her rooms actually measured,
allows eight inches square to a guest; thus having estimated the number
that can crowd into her house, she multiplies it by two, which gives the
amount of invitations to be issued, after which she leaves the rest to
Brown. Brown takes the list; Brown finds the required number of guests.
Brown invites whom he pleases; Brown fills the house with people, and
Brown, and only Brown, knows who they are, where they came from, or how
the deuce they got their invitations."
Dropper, still more bewildered, inquired who Brown was.