good breeding of the people you meet in the street by the manner in
which they return or evade your glance. “A gentleman,” as the Autocrat
has wisely said, is always “calm-eyed.” There is just enough abstraction
in his look to denote his individual power and the capacity for
self-contemplation, while he is, nevertheless, quietly and unobtrusively
observant. He does not seek, neither does he evade your observation.
Snobs and prigs do the first; bashful and mean people do the second.
There are some men who, on meeting your eye, immediately assume an
expression quite different from the one which they previously
wore, which, whether an improvement or not, suggests a disagreeable
self-consciousness. Perhaps they fancy they are betraying something.
There are others who return your look with unnecessary defiance, which
suggests a like concealment. The symptoms of the eye are generally borne
out in the figure. A man is very apt to betray his character by the
manner in which he appropriates his part of the sidewalk. The man who
resolutely keeps the middle of the pavement, and deliberately brushes
against you, you may be certain would take the last piece of pie at the
hotel table, and empty the cream-jug on its way to your cup. The man who
sidles by you, keeping close to the houses, and selecting the easiest
planks, manages to slip through life in some such way, and to evade its
sternest duties. The awkward man, who gets in your way, and throws you
back upon the man behind you, and so manages to derange the harmonious
procession of an entire block, is very apt to do the same thing in
political and social economy. The inquisitive man, who deliberately
shortens his pace, so that he may participate in the confidence you
impart to your companion, has an eye not unfamiliar to keyholes, and
probably opens his wife's letters. The loud man, who talks with the
intention of being overheard, is the same egotist elsewhere. If there
was any justice in Iago's sneer, that there were some “so weak of soul
that in their sleep they mutter their affairs,” what shall be said of
the walking revery-babblers? I have met men who were evidently rolling
over, “like a sweet morsel under the tongue,” some speech they were
about to make, and others who were framing curses. I remember once
that, while walking behind an apparently respectable old gentleman, he
suddenly uttered the exclamation, “Well, I'm d----d!” and then quietly
resumed his usual manner. Whether he had at that moment become impressed
with a truly orthodox disbelief in his ultimate salvation, or whether he
was simply indignant, I never could tell.
I have been hesitating for some time to speak--or if indeed to speak
at all--of that lovely and critic-defying sex, whose bright eyes
and voluble prattle have not been without effect in tempering the
austerities of my peripatetic musing. I have been humbly thankful that
I have been permitted to view their bright dresses and those charming
bonnets which seem to have brought the birds and flowers of spring
within the dreary limits of the town, and--I trust I shall not be deemed
unkind in saying it--my pleasure was not lessened by the reflection that
the display, to me at least, was inexpensive. I have walked in--and
I fear occasionally on--the train of the loveliest of her sex who has
preceded me. If I have sometimes wondered why two young ladies always
began to talk vivaciously on the approach of any good-looking fellow;
if I have wondered whether the minor-like qualities of all large
show-windows at all influenced their curiosity regarding silks and
calicoes; if I have ever entertained the same ungentlemanly thought
concerning daguerreotype show-cases; if I have ever misinterpreted the
eye-shot which has passed between two pretty women--more searching,
exhaustive and sincere than any of our feeble ogles; if I have ever
committed these or any other impertinences, it was only to retire beaten
and discomfited, and to confess that masculine philosophy, while it
soars beyond Sirius and the ring of Saturn, stops short at the steel
periphery which encompasses the simplest school-girl.
A BOYS' DOG
As I lift my eyes from the paper, I observe a dog lying on the steps
of the opposite house. His attitude might induce passers-by and casual
observers to believe him to belong to the people who live there, and to
accord to him a certain standing position. I have seen visitors pat
him, under the impression that they were doing an act of courtesy to his
master, he lending himself to the fraud by hypocritical contortions
of the body. But his attitude is one of deceit and simulation. He has
neither master nor habitation. He is a very Pariah and outcast; in
brief, “A Boys' Dog.”
There is a degree of hopeless and irreclaimable vagabondage expressed in
this epithet, which may not be generally understood. Only those who are
familiar with the roving nature and predatory instincts of boys in large
cities will appreciate its strength. It is the lowest step in the social
scale to which a respectable canine can descend. A blind man's dog, or
the companion of a knife-grinder, is comparatively elevated. He at least
owes allegiance to but one master. But the Boys' Dog is the thrall of an
entire juvenile community, obedient to the beck and call of the smallest
imp in the neighborhood, attached to and serving not the individual boy
so much as the boy element and principle. In their active sports, in
small thefts, raids into back-yards, window-breaking, and other minor
juvenile recreations, he is a full participant. In this way he is the
reflection of the wickedness of many masters, without possessing the
virtues or peculiarities of any particular one.
If leading a “dog's life” be considered a peculiar phase of human
misery, the life of a Boys' Dog is still more infelicitous. He is
associated in all schemes of wrong-doing, and unless he be a dog of
experience is always the scapegoat. He never shares the booty of his
associates. In absence of legitimate amusement, he is considered fair
game for his companions; and I have seen him reduced to the ignominy of
having a tin kettle tied to his tail. His ears and tail have generally
been docked to suit the caprice of the unholy band of which he is a
member; and if he has any spunk, he is invariably pitted against
larger dogs in mortal combat. He is poorly fed and hourly abused; the
reputation of his associates debars him from outside sympathies; and
once a Boys' Dog, he cannot change his condition. He is not unfrequently
sold into slavery by his inhuman companions. I remember once to have
been accosted on my own doorsteps by a couple of precocious youths, who
offered to sell me a dog which they were then leading by a rope. The
price was extremely moderate, being, if I remember rightly, but fifty
cents. Imagining the unfortunate animal to have lately fallen into
their wicked hands, and anxious to reclaim him from the degradation of
becoming a Boys' Dog, I was about to conclude the bargain, when I saw
a look of intelligence pass between the dog and his two masters. I
promptly stopped all negotiation, and drove the youthful swindlers
and their four-footed accomplice from my presence. The whole thing was
perfectly plain. The dog was an old, experienced, and hardened Boys'
Dog, and I was perfectly satisfied that he would run away and rejoin his
old companions at the first opportunity. This I afterwards learned he
did, on the occasion of a kind-hearted but unsophisticated neighbor
buying him; and a few days ago I saw him exposed for sale by those two
Arcadians, in another neighborhood, having been bought and paid for half
a dozen times in this.
But, it will be asked, if the life of a Boys' Dog is so unhappy, why
do they enter upon such an unenviable situation, and why do they not
dissolve the partnership when it becomes unpleasant? I will confess that
I have been often puzzled by this question. For some time I could not
make up my mind whether their unholy alliance was the result of the
influence of the dog on the boy, or vice versa, and which was the
weakest and most impressible nature. I am satisfied now that, at first,
the dog is undoubtedly influenced by the boy, and, as it were, is led,
while yet a puppy, from the paths of canine rectitude by artful and
designing boys. As he grows older and more experienced in the ways of
his Bohemian friends, he becomes a willing decoy, and takes delight in
leading boyish innocence astray, in beguiling children to play truant,
and thus revenges his own degradation on the boy nature generally. It is
in this relation, and in regard to certain unhallowed practices I
have detected him in, that I deem it proper to expose to parents and
guardians the danger to which their offspring is exposed by the Boys'
Dog.
The Boys' Dog lays his plans artfully. He begins to influence the
youthful mind by suggestions of unrestrained freedom and frolic which he
offers in his own person. He will lie in wait at the garden gate for a
very small boy, and endeavor to lure him outside its sacred precincts,
by gambolling and jumping a little beyond the inclosure. He will set off
on an imaginary chase and run around the block in a perfectly frantic
manner, and then return, breathless, to his former position, with a look
as of one who would say, “There, you see how perfectly easy it's done!”
Should the unhappy infant find it difficult to resist the effect which
this glimpse of the area of freedom produces, and step beyond the gate,
from that moment he is utterly demoralized. The Boys' Dog owns him
body and soul. Straightway he is led by the deceitful brute into the
unhallowed circle of his Bohemian masters. Sometimes the unfortunate
boy, if he be very small, turns up eventually at the station-house as
a lost child. Whenever I meet a stray boy in the street looking utterly
bewildered and astonished, I generally find a Boys' Dog lurking on the
corner. When I read the advertisements of lost children, I always add
mentally to the description, “was last seen in company with a Boys'
Dog.” Nor is his influence wholly confined to small boys. I have seen
him waiting patiently for larger boys on the way to school, and by
artful and sophistical practices inducing them to play truant. I have
seen him lying at the school-house door, with the intention of enticing
the children on their way home to distant and remote localities. He has
led many an unsuspecting boy to the wharves and quays by assuming the
character of a water-dog, which he was not, and again has induced others
to go with him on a gunning excursion by pretending to be a sporting
dog, in which quality he was knowingly deficient. Unscrupulous,
hypocritical, and deceitful, he has won many children's hearts by
answering to any name they might call him, attaching himself to their
persons until they got into trouble, and deserting them at the very
moment they most needed his assistance. I have seen him rob small
school-boys of their dinners by pretending to knock them down by
accident; and have seen larger boys in turn dispossess him of his
ill-gotten booty for their own private gratification. From being a
tool, he has grown to be an accomplice; through much imposition, he
has learned to impose on others; in his best character, he is simply a
vagabond's vagabond.
I could find it in my heart to pity him, as he lies there through the
long summer afternoon, enjoying brief intervals of tranquillity and
rest which he surreptitiously snatches from a stranger's doorstep. For
a shrill whistle is heard in the streets, the boys are coming home from
school, and he is startled from his dreams by a deftly thrown potato,
which hits him on the head, and awakens him to the stern reality that he
is now and forever--a Boys' Dog.
CHARITABLE REMINISCENCES
As the new Benevolent Association has had the effect of withdrawing
beggars from the streets, and as Professional Mendicancy bids fair to
be presently ranked with the Lost Arts, to preserve some records of this
noble branch of industry, I have endeavored to recall certain traits and
peculiarities of individual members of the order whom I have known,
and whose forms I now miss from their accustomed haunts. In so doing,
I confess to feeling a certain regret at this decay of Professional
Begging, for I hold the theory that mankind are bettered by the
occasional spectacle of misery, whether simulated or not, on the same
principle that our sympathies are enlarged by the fictitious woes of
the Drama, though we know that the actors are insincere. Perhaps I
am indiscreet in saying that I have rewarded the artfully dressed and
well-acted performance of the begging impostor through the same impulse
that impelled me to expend a dollar in witnessing the counterfeited
sorrows of poor “Triplet,” as represented by Charles Wheatleigh. I did
not quarrel with deceit in either case. My coin was given in recognition
of the sentiment; the moral responsibility rested with the performer.
The principal figure that I now mourn over as lost forever is one
that may have been familiar to many of my readers. It was that of a
dark-complexioned, black-eyed, foreign-looking woman, who supported
in her arms a sickly baby. As a pathological phenomenon the baby was
especially interesting, having presented the Hippocratic face and other
symptoms of immediate dissolution, without change, for the past three
years. The woman never verbally solicited alms. Her appearance was
always mute, mysterious, and sudden. She made no other appeal than
that which the dramatic tableau of herself and baby suggested, with an
outstretched hand and deprecating eye sometimes superadded. She usually
stood in my doorway, silent and patient, intimating her presence, if
my attention were preoccupied, by a slight cough from her baby, whom I
shall always believe had its part to play in this little pantomime, and
generally obeyed a secret signal from the maternal hand. It was useless
for me to refuse alms, to plead business, or affect inattention. She
never moved; her position was always taken with an appearance of latent
capabilities of endurance and experience in waiting which never failed
to impress me with awe and the futility of any hope of escape. There was
also something in the reproachful expression of her eye which
plainly said to me, as I bent over my paper, “Go on with your mock
sentimentalities and simulated pathos; portray the imaginary sufferings
of your bodiless creations, spread your thin web of philosophy, but look
you, sir, here is real misery! Here is genuine suffering!” I confess
that this artful suggestion usually brought me down. In three minutes
after she had thus invested the citadel I usually surrendered at
discretion, without a gun having been fired on either side. She received
my offering and retired as mutely and mysteriously as she had appeared.
Perhaps it was well for me that she did not know her strength. I might
have been forced, had this terrible woman been conscious of her real
power, to have borrowed money which I could not pay, or have forged a
check to purchase immunity from her awful presence. I hardly know if I
make myself understood, and yet I am unable to define my meaning
more clearly when I say that there was something in her glance which
suggested to the person appealed to, when in the presence of others,
a certain idea of some individual responsibility for her sufferings,
which, while it never failed to affect him with a mingled sense of
ludicrousness and terror, always made an impression of unqualified
gravity on the minds of the bystanders. As she has disappeared within
the last month, I imagine that she has found a home at the San Francisco
Benevolent Association,--at least, I cannot conceive of any charity,
however guarded by wholesome checks or sharp-eyed almoners, that could
resist that mute apparition. I should like to go there and inquire
about her, and also learn if the baby was convalescent or dead, but I
am satisfied that she would rise up, a mute and reproachful appeal, so
personal in its artful suggestions, that it would end in the Association
instantly transferring her to my hands.
My next familiar mendicant was a vender of printed ballads. These
effusions were so stale, atrocious, and unsalable in their character,
that it was easy to detect that hypocrisy, which--in imitation of more
ambitious beggary--veiled the real eleemosynary appeal under the thin
pretext of offering an equivalent. This beggar--an aged female in
a rusty bonnet--I unconsciously precipitated upon myself in an evil
moment. On our first meeting, while distractedly turning over the
ballads, I came upon a certain production entitled, I think, “The Fire
Zouave,” and was struck with the truly patriotic and American manner
in which “Zouave” was made to rhyme in different stanzas with “grave,
brave, save, and glaive.” As I purchased it at once, with a gratified
expression of countenance, it soon became evident that the act was
misconstrued by my poor friend, who from that moment never ceased to
haunt me. Perhaps in the whole course of her precarious existence she
had never before sold a ballad. My solitary purchase evidently made
me, in her eyes, a customer, and in a measure exalted her vocation; so
thereafter she regularly used to look in at my door, with a chirping,
confident air, and the question, “Any more songs to-day?” as though it
were some necessary article of daily consumption. I never took any more
of her songs, although that circumstance did not shake her faith in my
literary taste; my abstinence from this exciting mental pabulum being
probably ascribed to charitable motives. She was finally absorbed by the
S. F. B. A., who have probably made a proper disposition of her effects.
She was a little old woman, of Celtic origin, predisposed to melancholy,
and looking as if she had read most of her ballads.
My next reminiscence takes the shape of a very seedy individual, who
had, for three or four years, been vainly attempting to get back to
his relatives in Illinois, where sympathizing friends and a comfortable
almshouse awaited him. Only a few dollars, he informed me,--the
uncontributed remainder of the amount necessary to purchase a steerage
ticket,--stood in his way. These last few dollars seem to have been
most difficult to get, and he had wandered about, a sort of antithetical
Flying Dutchman, forever putting to sea, yet never getting away from
shore. He was a “49-er,” and had recently been blown up in a tunnel, or
had fallen down a shaft, I forget which. This sad accident obliged him
to use large quantities of whiskey as a liniment, which, he informed
me, occasioned the mild fragrance which his garments exhaled. Though
belonging to the same class, he was not to be confounded with the
unfortunate miner who could not get back to his claim without pecuniary
assistance, or the desolate Italian, who hopelessly handed you
a document in a foreign language, very much bethumbed and
illegible,--which, in your ignorance of the tongue, you couldn't help
suspiciously feeling might have been a price current, but which you
could see was proffered as an excuse for alms. Indeed, whenever any
stranger handed me, without speaking, an open document, which bore the
marks of having been carried in the greasy lining of a hat, I always
felt safe in giving him a quarter and dismissing him without further
questioning. I always noticed that these circular letters, when written
in the vernacular, were remarkable for their beautiful caligraphy and
grammatical inaccuracy, and that they all seem to have been written by
the same hand. Perhaps indigence exercises a peculiar and equal effect
upon the handwriting.
I recall a few occasional mendicants whose faces were less familiar.
One afternoon a most extraordinary Irishman, with a black eye, a bruised
hat, and other traces of past enjoyment, waited upon me with a pitiful
story of destitution and want, and concluded by requesting the usual
trifle. I replied, with some severity, that if I gave him a dime he
would probably spend it for drink. “Be Gorra! but you're roight--I
wad that!” he answered promptly. I was so much taken aback by this
unexpected exhibition of frankness that I instantly handed over the
dime. It seems that Truth had survived the wreck of his other virtues;
he did get drunk, and, impelled by a like conscientious sense of duty,
exhibited himself to me in that state a few hours after, to show that my
bounty had not been misapplied.
In spite of the peculiar characters of these reminiscences, I cannot
help feeling a certain regret at the decay of Professional Mendicancy.
Perhaps it may be owing to a lingering trace of that youthful
superstition which saw in all beggars a possible prince or fairy, and
invested their calling with a mysterious awe. Perhaps it may be from
a belief that there is something in the old-fashioned alms-givings
and actual contact with misery that is wholesome for both donor and
recipient, and that any system which interposes a third party between
them is only putting on a thick glove, which, while it preserves us from
contagion, absorbs and deadens the kindly pressure of our hand. It is a
very pleasant thing to purchase relief from the annoyance and trouble
of having to weigh the claims of an afflicted neighbor. As I turn
over these printed tickets, which the courtesy of the San Francisco
Benevolent Association has--by a slight stretch of the imagination in
supposing that any sane unfortunate might rashly seek relief from a
newspaper office--conveyed to these editorial hands, I cannot help
wondering whether, when in our last extremity we come to draw upon the
Immeasurable Bounty, it will be necessary to present a ticket.
“SEEING THE STEAMER OFF”
I have sometimes thought, while watching the departure of an Eastern
steamer, that the act of parting from friends--so generally one of
bitterness and despondency--is made by an ingenious Californian custom
to yield a pleasurable excitement. This luxury of leave-taking, in which
most Californians indulge, is often protracted to the hauling in of the
gang-plank. Those last words, injunctions, promises, and embraces, which
are mournful and depressing perhaps in that privacy demanded on other
occasions, are here, by reason of their very publicity, of an edifying
and exhilarating character. A parting kiss, blown from the deck of a
steamer into a miscellaneous crowd, of course loses much of that
sacred solemnity with which foolish superstition is apt to invest it. A
broadside of endearing epithets, even when properly aimed and apparently
raking the whole wharf, is apt to be impotent and harmless. A husband
who prefers to embrace his wife for the last time at the door of
her stateroom, and finds himself the centre of an admiring group of
unconcerned spectators, of course feels himself lifted above any feeling
save that of ludicrousness which the situation suggests. The mother,
parting from her offspring, should become a Roman matron under the like
influences; the lover who takes leave of his sweetheart is not apt to
mar the general hilarity by any emotional folly. In fact, this system of
delaying our parting sentiments until the last moment--this removal of
domestic scenery and incident to a public theatre--may be said to be
worthy of a stoical and democratic people, and is an event in our lives
which may be shared with the humblest coal-passer or itinerant vender
of oranges. It is a return to that classic out-of-door experience
and mingling of public and domestic economy which so ennobled the
straight-nosed Athenian.