Jeremy Diddlers have existed from time immemorial down, as traces of
them are found in all ancient and modern history, from the Bible to
Shakspeare, from Shakspeare to the revelations of George Gordon Byron,
who strutted his brief hour, acted his part, and--vanished. Diddler is
derived from the word _diddle_, to _do_--every body who has not yet made
his debut to the Elephant. We believe the word has escaped the attention
of the ancient lexicographers, and even Worcester, and the still more
durable "Webster," have no note of the word, its derivation, or present
sense.
A "Jeremy Diddler" is, in _fact_, one of your first-class vagabonds; a
fellow who has been spoiled by indulgent parents, while they were in
easy circumstances. Trained up to despise labor, not capacitated by
nature or inclination to pass current in a profession, he finds himself
at twenty possessed of a genteel address, a respectable wardrobe, a few
friends, and--no visible means of support. There are but two ways about
it--take to the highway, or become a Diddler--a sponge--and, like
woodcock, live on "suction." The early part of a Diddler's life is
chiefly spent among the ladies;--they being strongly susceptible of
flattering attentions, especially those of "a nice young man," your
Diddler lives and flourishes among them like a fighting cock. Diddler's
"heyday" being over, he next becomes a politician--an old Hunker;
attends caucusses and conventions, dinners and inaugurations. Never
aspiring to matrimony among the ladies, he remains an "old bach;" never
hoping for office under government, he never gets any; and when, at
last, both youth and energies are wasted, Diddler dons a white
neckcloth, combs his few straggling hairs behind his ears, and, dressed
in a well-brushed but shocking seedy suit of sable, he jines church and
turns "old fogie," carries around the plate, does chores for the parson,
becomes generally useful to the whole congregation, and finally shuffles
off his mortal coil, and ends his eventful and useless life in the most
becoming manner.
Cities are the only fields subservient to the successful practice of a
respectable Diddler. New York affords them a very fair scope for
operation, but of all the American cities, New Orleans is the Diddler's
paradise! The mobile state of society, the fluctuations of men and
business, the impossibility of knowing any thing or any body there for
any considerable period, gives the Diddler ample scope for the exercise
of his peculiar abilities to great effect. He dines almost sumptuously
at the daily lunches set at the splendid drinking saloons and _cafes_,
he lives for a month at a time on the various upward-bound steamboats.
In New Orleans, the departure of a steamer for St. Louis, Cincinnati or
Pittsburg, is announced for such an hour "to-day"--positively; Diddler
knows it's "all a gag" to get passengers and baggage hurried on, and the
steamer keeps _going_ for two to five days before she's gone; so he
comes on board, registers one of his commonplace aliases, gets his
state-room and board among the crowd of _real_ passengers, up to the
hour of the boat's shoving out, then he--slips ashore, and points his
boots to another boat. Many's the Diddler who's passed a whole season
thus, dead-heading it on the steamers of the Crescent City. Sometimes
the Diddler learns bad habits in the South, from being a mere Diddler,
which is morally bad enough; he comes in contact with professional
gamblers, plunges into the most pernicious and abominable of
vices--gambles, cheats, swindles, and finally, as a grand tableau to his
utter damnation here and hereafter, opens a store or a bank with a
crowbar--or commits murder.
The Re-Union; Thanksgiving Story.
"Behold, for peace I had great bitterness, but thou hast in love to
my soul delivered it from the pit of corruption: for thou hast cast
all my sins behind thy back."--Isaiah.
A portly elderly gentleman, with one hand in his breeches pocket, and
the fingers of the other drumming a disconsolate rub-a-dub upon the
window glass of an elegant mansion near Boston Common, is the personage
I wish to call your attention to, friend reader, for the space of a few
moments. The facts of my story are commonplace, and thereby the more
probable. The names of the dramatis personæ I shall introduce, will be
the _only_ part of my subject imaginary. Therefore, the above-described
old gentleman, whom we found and left drumming his rub-a-dub upon the
window panes, we shall call Mr. Joel Newschool. To elucidate the matter
more clearly, I would beg leave to say, that Mr. Joel Newschool, though
now a wealthy and retired merchant, with all the "pomp and circumstance"
of fortune around him, could--if he chose--well recollect the day when
his little feet were shoeless, red and frost-bitten, as he plodded
through the wheat and rye stubble of a Massachusetts farmer, for whom he
acted in early life the trifling character of a "cow boy."
Yes, Joel could remember this if he chose; but to the vain heart of a
proud millionaire, such reflections seldom come to the surface. Like
hundreds of other instances in the history of our countrymen, by a
prolonged life of enterprise and good luck, Joel Newschool found
himself, at the age of four-and-sixty, a very wealthy, if not a happy
man. With his growing wealth, grew up around him a large family. Having
served an apprenticeship to farming, he allowed but a brief space to
elapse between his freedom suit and portion, and his wedding-day. Joel
and his young and fresh country spouse, with light hearts and lighter
purses, came to Boston, settled, and thus we find them old and wealthy.
In the heart and manners of Mrs. Newschool, fortune made but slight
alteration; but the accumulation of dollars and exalted privileges that
follow wealth, had wrought many changes in the heart and feelings of her
husband.
The wear of time, which is supposed to dim the eye, seemed to improve
the ocular views of Joel Newschool amazingly, for he had been enabled in
his late years to see that a vast difference of _caste_ existed between
those that tilled the soil, wielded the sledge hammer, or drove the
jack-plane, and those that were merely the idle spectators of such
operations. He no longer groped in the darkness of men who believed in
such fallacies as that wealth gave man no superiority over honest
poverty! In short, Mr. Newschool had kept pace with all the fine notions
and ostentatious feelings so peculiar to the mushroom aristocracy of the
nineteenth century. He gloried in his pride, and yet felt little or none
of that happiness that the bare-footed, merry cow boy enjoyed in the
stubble field. But such is man.
With all his comfortable appurtenances wealth could buy and station
claim, the retired merchant was not a happy man. Though his expensive
carriage and liveried driver were seen to roll him regularly to the
majestic church upon the Sabbath: though he was a patient listener to
the massive organ's spiritual strains and the surpliced minister's
devout incantations: though he defrauded no man, defamed not his
neighbor, was seeming virtuous and happy, there was at his heart a pang
that turned to lees the essence of his life.
Joel Newschool had seen his two sons and three daughters, men and women
around him; they all married and left his roof for their own. One, a
favorite child, a daughter, a fine, well-grown girl, upon whom the
father's heart had set its fondest seal--she it was that the hand of
Providence ordained to humble the proud heart of the sordid millionaire.
Cecelia Newschool, actuated by the noblest impulses of nature, had for
her husband sought "a _man_, not a money chest," and this circumstance
had made Cecelia a severed member of the Newschool family, who could
not, in the refined delicacy of their senses, tolerate such palpable
condescension as to acknowledge a tie that bound _them_ to the wife of a
poor artizan, whatever might be his talents or integrity as a man.
Francis Fairway had made honorable appeal to the heart of Cecelia, and
she repaid his pains with the full gift of a happy wife. She counted not
his worldly prospects, but yielded all to his constancy. She wished for
nothing but his love, and with that blessed beacon of life before her,
she looked but with joy and hope to the bright side of the sunny future.
The home of the artizan was a plain, but a happy one. Loving and
beloved, Cecelia scarce felt the loss of her sumptuous home and ties of
kindred. But not so the proud father and the patient mother, the haughty
sisters and brothers; they felt all; they attempted to conceal all, that
bitterness of soul, the canker that gnaws upon the heart when we will
strive to stifle the better parts of our natures.
Time passed on; one, two, or three years, are quickly passed and gone.
Though this little space of time made little or no change in the
families of the proud and indolent relatives, it brought many changes in
the eventful life of the young artizan and his wife. Two sweet little
babes nestled in the mother's arms, and a new and splendid invention of
the poor mechanic was reaping the wonder and admiration of all Europe
and America.
This was salt cast upon the affected wounds of the haughty relatives.
Now ashamed of their petty, poor, contemptible arrogance, they could not
in their hearts find space to welcome or partake of the proud dignity
with which honorable industry had crowned the labors of the young
mechanic.
It was a cold day in November; the wind was twirling and whistling
through the trees on the Common; the dead leaves were dropping seared
and yellow to the earth, admonishing the old gentleman whom we left
drumming upon the window, that--
"_Such was life!_"
The old gentleman thumped and thumped the window pane with a dreary
_sotto voce_ accompaniment for some minutes, when he was interrupted by
an aged, pious-looking matron, who dropped her spectacles across the
book in her lap, as she sat in her chair by the fireside, and said--
"Joel."
"Umph?" responded the old gentleman.
"The Lord has spared us to see another Thanksgiving day, should we live
to see to-morrow."
"He has," responded Mr. Newschool.
"I've been thinking, Joel, that how ungrateful to God we are, for the
blessings, and prosperity, and long life vouchsafed to us, by a good and
benevolent Almighty."
"Rebecca," said the faltering voice of the rich man, "I know, I feel all
this as sensitive as you can possibly feel it."
"I was thinking, Joel," continued the good woman, "to-morrow we shall,
God permitting, be with our children and friends once again, together."
"I hope so, I trust we shall," answered the husband.
"And I was thinking, Joel," resumed the wife, "that the exclusion of our
own child, Cecelia, from the family re-unions, from joining us in
returning thanks to God for his mercy and preservation of us, is cruel
and offensive to Him we deign to render up our prayers."
"Rebecca," said the old gentleman, "I but agree with you in this, you
have but anticipated my feelings in the matter. I have long fought
against my better feelings and offended a discriminating God, I know.
Ashamed to confess my stubbornness and frailty before, I now freely
confess an altered feeling and better determination."
"Then, Joel, let our daughter Cecelia and her husband join with us
to-morrow in rendering our thanks to a just God and kind Providence."
"Be it so, Rebecca. God truly knows it will be a millstone relieved from
my heart. I wish it done."
Three family re-unions, three days of Thanksgiving had been held in the
paternal mansion of the Newschools, since Cecelia had left it for the
humble home of the poor artizan. But their several re-unions were
clouded, gloomy, unsocial affairs; there was a gap in the social circle
of the Newschool family, as they met on Thanksgiving day, which all
felt, but none hinted at. It was hard for a parent to invoke blessings
on a portion, but not all, of his own flesh and blood; it was hard to
return thanks for those dear ones present, and _wonder_ whether the
absent and equally dear had aught to be thankful for, whether instead of
health and comfort, they might not be sorrowing in disease, poverty, and
despair! Such things as these, when they obtrude upon the mind, the
soul, are not likely to make merry meetings. And such was the position
and nature of the re-union upon the late Thanksgiving days, at the
Newschool mansion. But better feelings were at work, and a happy change
was at hand.
Several carriages had already drove up to the door of Mr. Newschool,
Sen., and let down the different branches of the Newschool family. A
brighter appearance seemed gathering over the household than was usual
of late on Thanksgiving day, in the old family mansion. As each party
came, the good old mother duly informed them of the invitation given,
and the hope indulged in, that Cecelia and her husband would join the
family circle that day, in their re-union.
The proud sisters seemed willing, at last, to cast away their pride, and
greet their sister as became Christian and sensible women. The brothers,
chagrined at the unmanliness of their conduct, now gladly joined their
approval of what betokened, in fact, a happy family meeting. As the
clock on old South Church tower pealed out eleven, a pretty, smiling
young mother, in plain, but unexceptionable, neat attire, ascended the
large stone steps of the Newschool mansion, with a light and graceful
step, bearing a sleeping child in her arms.
Another moment, and Cecelia Fairway was in the arms of her old mother;
the smiles, kisses and tears of the whole family party were bountifully
showered upon poor Cecelia, and her sweet little daughter. Imagination
may always better paint such a scene, than could the feeble pen describe
it. The deep and gushing eloquence of human nature, when thus long pent,
bursts forth, sweeping the meagre devises of the pen before it, like
snow-flakes before the mighty mountain avalanche.
Oh! it was a happy sight, to see that party at their Thanksgiving
dinner.
Old Mr. Newschool, in his long and fervent prayer to the throne of
grace, expressed the day the happiest one of his long life. Quickly flew
the hours by, and as the shades of evening gathered around, Francis
Fairway was announced with a carriage for his wife's return home.
Francis Fairway, the artizan, was a proud, high-minded man, conscious of
his own position and merits, and scorned any base means to conciliate
the favor and patronage of his superiors in rank, birth, or education.
His deportment to the Newschool family was frank and manly; and they met
it with a sense of just appreciation and dignity, that did them honor.
Francis met a generous welcome, and the evening of Thanksgiving day was
spent in a happy re-union indeed. Upon Cecelia's and her husband's
return home, she found a small note thrust in the bosom of her child,
bearing this inscription--
"Grandfather's Re-union gift to little Cecelia; Boston, Nov., 184-."
The note contained five $1000 bills on the old Granite Bank of Boston,
and which were duly placed in the old Bank fire-proof, to the account of
the little heir, the enterprise of the artizan having placed him above
the necessity of otherwise disposing of Joel Newschool's gift to the
grandchild.
Cabbage vs. Men.
Theodore Parker says, the cultivation of man is as noble and
praiseworthy a science, as the cultivation of cabbage, or the garden
sass! Says brother Theodore, "You don't cast garden-seed in the mire,
over the rough broken ground, and exhibit your benefits. No, you dig,
level, rake, and then sow your seed, you give them sunshine and water,
you tear out the weeds that would choke your infant vegetables--why
would you do less for the material man?" Pre-cisely! we pause for an
answer, proposals received from the learned--until we go to press.
Wanted--A Young Man from the Country.
All of our mercantile cities are overrun with young men who have been
bred for the counter or desk, and thousands of these genteel young gents
find it any thing but an easy matter to find bread or situations half
their time, in these crowded marts of men and merchandise. An
advertisement in a New York or New Orleans paper, for a clerk or
salesman, rarely fails to "turn up" a hundred needy and greedy
applicants, in the course of a morning! In New York, where a vast number
of these misguided young men are "manufactured," and continue to be
manufactured by the regiment, for an already surfeited market, there are
wretches who practise upon these innocent victims of perverted
usefulness, a species of fraud but slightly understood.
By a confederacy with some experienced dry goods dealer, the proprietor
of one of those agencies for procuring situations for young men,
_victims_ of misplaced confidence are put through at five to ten dollars
each, somewhat after this fashion: Sharp, the keeper of the Agency,
advertises for two good clerks, one book-keeper, five salesmen, ten
waiters, &c., &c.; and, of course, as every steamboat, car and stage,
running into New York, brings in a fresh importation of young men from
the country, all fitted out in the knowledge box for salesmen,
book-keepers and clerk-ships,--every morning, a new set are offered to
be taken in and done for. Sharp demands a fee of five or ten dollars for
obtaining a situation; victim forks over the amount, and is sent to
Sharp number two, who keeps the dry goods shop; he has got through with
a victim of yesterday, and is now ready for the fresh victim of to-day;
for he makes it a point to put them through such a gamut of labor,
vexatious man[oe]uvres and insolence, that not one out of fifty come
back next day, and if they do--_he don't want them!_ If the unsuspecting
victim returns to the "Agency," he is lectured roundly for his
incapacity or want of _energy!_--and advised to return to the country
and recuperate.
Jeremiah Bumps having graduated with all the honors of Sniffensville
Academy, and having many unmistakable longings for becoming a Merchant
Prince, and seeing sights in a city; and having read an account of the
great fortunes piled up in course of a few years, by poor, friendless
country boys, like Abbot Lawrence, John Jacob Astor, he up and came
right straight to Boston, having read it in the papers that clerks,
salesmen, book-keepers, and so on, were wanted, dreadfully--"young men
from the country preferred"--so he called on the _suffering_ agent for
the public, and paying down his _fee_, was sent off to an _Importing
House_, on ---- street, where a clerk and salesman were wanted. Jeremiah
found his idea of an _Importing House_ knocked into a disarranged
chapeau, by finding the one in the "present case," a large and luminous
_store_, filled up with paper boxes and sham bundles; while gaudily
festooned, were any quantity of calicoes, cheap shawls, ribbons, tapes,
and innumerable other tuppenny affairs.
Nebuchadnezzar Cheatum, the proprietor of this importing and jobbing
house, was a keen, little, slick-as-a-whistle, heavy-bearded, shaved and
starched genus, of six-and-thirty, more or less; and received Jeremiah
with a rather patronizing survey _personelle_, and opened the engagement
with a few remarks.
"From the country, are you?"
"Sniffensville, sir," said Jeremiah; "County of Scrub-oak, State of New
Hampshire."
"Ah, well, I prefer country-bred young men; they are better trained,"
said Cheatum, "to industry, perseverance, honest frugality, and the
duties of a Christian man. I was brought up in the country myself. I've
made myself; carved out, and built up my own position, sir. Yes, sir,
give me good, sound, country-bred young men; I've tried them, I know
what they are," said Cheatum; and he spoke near enough the truth to be
partly true, for he _had_ "tried them;" he averaged some fifty-two
clerks and an equal number of _salesmen_--yearly.
Jeremiah Bumps grew red in the face at the complimentary manner in which
Nebuchadnezzar Cheatum was pleased to review the country and its
institutions.
"What salary did you think of allowing?" says Jeremiah.
"Well," said Cheatum, "I allow my salesmen three dollars a week the
first year, (Jeremiah's ears cocked up,) and three per cent. on the
sales they make the second year."
By cyphering it up "in his head," Jeremiah came to the conclusion that
the _first_ year wouldn't add much to his pecuniary elevation, whatever
the second did with its three per cents. But he was bound to try it on,
anyhow.
"Now," said Cheatum, "in the first place, Solomon----"
"Jeremiah, if you please, sir," said the young man.
"Ah, yes, Thomas--_pshaw!_--Jediah, I would say," continued Cheatum,
correcting himself--
"Jeremiah--Jeremiah Bumps, sir," sharply echoed Mr. Bumps.
"Oh, yes, yes; one has so many clerks and salesmen in course of
business," said Cheatum, "that I get their names confused. Well,
Jeremiah, in the first place, you must learn to please the customers;
you must always be lively and spry, and never give an offensive answer.
Many women and girls come in to price and overhaul things, without the
remotest idea of buying anything, and it's often trying to one's
patience; but you must wait on them, for there is no possible means of
telling a woman who _shops_ for pastime, from one who shops in earnest;
so you must be careful, be polite, be lively and spry, and never let a
person _go_ without making a purchase, if you can possibly help it. If a
person asks for an article we have not got, endeavor to make them try
something else. If a woman asks whether four-penny calico, or six-penny
delaines will wash, say 'yes, ma'am, _beautifully_; I've tried them, or
seen them tried;' and if they say, 'are these ten cent flannels real
_Shaker flannels_? or the ninepence hose _all merino_?' better not
contradict them; say 'yes, ma'am, I've tried them, seen them tried, know
they are,' or similar appropriate answers to the various questions that
may be asked," said Cheatum.
"Yes, sir," Jeremiah responded, "I understand."
"And, William----"
"Jeremiah, sir, if you please."
"Oh, yes; well, Jediah--Jeremiah, I would say--when you make change,
never take a ten cent piece and two cents for a shilling, but give it as
often as practicable; look out for the fractions in adding up, and
beware of crossed six-pences, smooth shillings, and what are called
Bungtown coppers," said Cheatum, with much emphasis.
"I'm pooty well posted up, sir, in all _that_," said Jeremiah.
"And, Jeems--pshaw!--Jacob--Jeremiah! I would say, in measuring, always
put your thumb _so_, and when you move the yardstick forward, shove your
thumb an inch or so _back_; in measuring _close_ you may manage to
squeeze out five yards from four and three-quarters, you understand? And
always be watchful that some of those nimble, light-fingered folks don't
slip a roll of ribbon, or a pair of gloves or hose, or a piece of goods,
up their sleeves, in their bosoms, pockets, or under their shawls. Be
careful, Henry--Jeems, I should say," said Cheatum.
Being duly rehearsed, Jeremiah Bumps went to work. The first customer he
had was a little girl, who bought a yard of ribbon for ninepence, and
Jeremiah not only stretched seven-eighths of a yard into a full yard,
but made twelve cents go for a ninepence, which _feat_ brought down the
vials of wrath of the child's mother, a burly old Scotch woman, who
"tongue-lashed" poor Jeremiah awfully! His next adventure was the sale
of a dress pattern of sixpenny de-laine, which he _warranted_ to contain
all the perfections known to the best article, and in dashing his
vigorous scissors through the fabric, he caught them in the folds of a
dozen silk handkerchiefs on the counter, and ripped them all into
slitters! The young woman who took the dress pattern, upon reaching
home, found it contained but eight yards, when she paid for nine. She
came back, and Jeremiah Bumps got another bombasting! He sold fourpenny
calico, and warranted it to wash; next day it came back, and an old lady
with it; the colors and starch were all out, by dipping it in water, and
the woman went on so that Cheatum was glad to refund her money to get
rid of her. Two dashing young ladies, out "shopping" for their own
diversions, gave Jeremiah a call; he labored hand and tongue, he hauled
down and exhibited Cheatum's entire stock; the girls then were leaving,
saying they would "call again," and Jeremiah very amiably said, "do,
ladies, do; call again, _like to secure your custom!_" The young ladies
took this as an insult. Their big brothers waited on Mr. Bumps, and
nothing short of his humble apologies saved him from enraged cowhides!
Jeremiah saw a suspicious woman enter the store, and after overhauling a
box of gloves, he thought he saw her _pocket a pair_. He intercepted the
lady as she was going out--he grabbed her by the pocket--the lady
resisted--Jeremiah held on--the lady fainted, and Jeremiah Bumps nearly
tore her dress off in pulling out the gloves! The lady proved to be the
wife of a distinguished citizen, and the gloves purchased at another
store! A lawsuit followed, and Mr. Bumps was fined $100, and sent to the
House of Correction for sixty days.
How many new clerks Nebuchadnezzar Cheatum has put through since, we
know not; but Jeremiah Bumps is now engaged in the practical science of
agriculture, and shudders at the idea of a young man from the country
being _wanted_ in a dry goods shop, if they have got to see the elephant
that he _observed--in Boston_.
Presence of Mind.
Mr. Davenport--the "Ned Davenport" of the Bowery boys--before sailing
for Europe and while attached to the Bowery Theatre, was of the lean and
hungry kind. In fact he was extremely lean--tall as a may-pole, and
slender enough to crawl through a greased _fleute_,--to use a yankeeism.
Somebody "up" for Shylock one night, at the Bowery, was suddenly
"indisposed" or, in the strongest probability, quite stupefied from the
effect of the deadly poisons retailed in the numerous groggeries that
really swarm near the Gotham play-houses. Well, Mr. Davenport--a
gentleman who has reached a most honorable position in his profession by
sobriety and talent--was substituted for the indisposed _Shylock_, and
the play went on.
In the trial scene, Mr. Davenport really "took down the house" by his
vehemence, and his ferocious, lean, and hungry aspirations for the pound
of flesh! One of the b'hoys, so identical with the B'ow'ry pit, got
quite worked up; he twisted and squirmed, he chewed his cud, he stroked
his "soap-lock," but, finally, wrought up to great presence of
mind,--our lean Shylock still calling for his pound of flesh,--roars
out;--
"S'ay, look a' here,--_why don't you give skinny de meat, don't you see
he wants it, sa-a-a-y!_"