the teeming press of Messrs. BURGESS AND STRINGER a new edition of these
most humorous and witty sketches, illustrated with engravings by D. C.
JOHNSTON, of Boston. We have re-perused them with renewed delight, and
awakened again the echoes of our silent sanctum, in the excess of our
cachinnatory enjoyment. Our friend MORTON M'MICHAEL, in the 'advance
GRAHAM' for February, (which by the way contains a breathing likeness of
the sketcher,) has the following remarks upon the papers composing the
volume before us, which we most cordially endorse: 'No one, who has his
faculties in a healthy condition, can read them and not feel convinced
that they are the productions of a superior and highly gifted mind. They
not only smack strongly of what all true men love, genuine humor; rich,
racy, glorious humor; at which you may indulge in an honest outbreak of
laughter, and not feel ashamed afterward because you have thrown away good
mirth on a pitiful jest; but when you have laughed your fill, if you
choose to look beneath the surface, which sparkles and bubbles with
brilliant fancies, you will find an under current of truthful observation,
abundant in matter for sober thought in your graver moments. In all of
them, light and trifling as they seem, and pleasant as they unquestionably
are, there is a deep and solemn moral. The follies and vices which, in
weak natures, soon grow into crimes, are here presented in such a way as
to forewarn those who are about to yield to temptation, not by dull
monitions and unregarded homilies, but by making the actors themselves
unconscious protestants against their own misdoings. And to do this well
requires a combination of abilities such as few possess. There must be the
quick eye to perceive, the nice judgment to discriminate, the active
memory to retain, the vigorous pen to depict, and above all, the soul, the
mind, the genius, call it what you will, to infuse into the whole life and
spirit and power. Now, all these qualities Neal has in an eminent degree,
and he applies them with the skill of an accomplished artist. What he does
he does thoroughly, perfectly. His portraits, which he modestly calls
sketches, are unmistakeable. The very men he wishes to portray are before
you, and they are not only limned to the outward eye, but they speak also
to the outward ear, and in sentences thickly clustered with the drollest
conceits, they convey lessons of practical philosophy, and make
revelations of the strange perversities of our inward nature, from which
even the wise may gather profitable conclusions.' Our friend speaks of Mr.
NEAL'S being 'comparatively little known.' We have good reason to believe
that one great cause of this is, that his name has often been confounded
with that of another and altogether different species of NEAL, whose
infinite twattle--infinite alike in degree and quantity--has prejudiced
the public mind against any thing that may seem to come in 'questionable
shape' from a questionable source. This error has had its advantages to
_one_ party, no doubt, since there was 'every thing to gain and nothing to
lose;' an advantage however which the prefix of the first two initials of
our friend and correspondent to passages from his work which may hereafter
find their way into the newspapers, will transfer to the rightful
recipient. But to the volume in question, from which we are about to make
a few random selections, illustrating the characters of sundry 'city
worthies,' who are 'comprehended as vagrom men' by the 'charleys' or
watchmen of the good City of Brotherly Love. Let us begin with the
soliloquy of the poetical OLYMPUS PUMP:
''GENIUS never feels its oats until after sunset; twilight applies
the spanner to the fire-plug of fancy to give its bubbling
fountains way; and midnight lifts the sluices for the cataracts of
the heart, and cries, 'Pass on the water!' Yes, and economically
considered, night is this world's Spanish cloak; for no matter how
dilapidated or festooned one's apparel may be, the loops and
windows cannot be discovered, and we look as elegant and as
beautiful as get out. Ah!' continued Pump, as he gracefully
reclined upon the stall, 'it's really astonishing how rich I am in
the idea line to-night. But it's no use. I've got no pencil--not
even a piece of chalk to write 'em on my hat for my next poem.
It's a great pity ideas are so much of the soap-bubble order, that
you can't tie 'em up in a pocket handkerchief, like a half peck of
potatoes, or string 'em on a stick like catfish. I often have the
most beautiful notions scampering through my head with the grace,
but alas! the swiftness too, of kittens, especially just before I
get asleep; but they're all lost for the want of a trap; an
intellectual figgery four. I wish we could find out the way of
sprinkling salt on their tails, and make 'em wait till we want to
use 'em. Why can't some of the meaner souls invent an idea-catcher
for the use of genius? I'm sure they'd find it profitable, for I
wouldn't mind owing a man twenty dollars for one myself.'
Mr. FYDGET FYXINGTON is another worthy, who reverts continually to 'first
principles,' and is full of schemes and projects, especially when he
chances to have 'a stone in his hat.' Hear him:
''NOTHIN'S fixed no how; our grand-dads must a been lazy rascals.
Why didn't they roof over the side-walks, and not leave every
thing for us to do? I ain't got no numbrell, and besides that,
when it comes down as if raining was no name for it, as it always
does when I'm cotch'd out, numbrells is no great shakes if you've
got one with you, and no shakes at all if it's at home. It's a
pity we ain't got feathers, so's to grow our own jacket and
trowsers, and do up the tailorin' business, and make our own
feather beds. It would be a great savin'; every man his own
clothes, and every man his own feather bed. Now I've got a
suggestion about that; first principles bring us to the skin;
fortify that, and the matter's done. How would it do to bile a big
kittle full of tar, tallow, beeswax and injen rubber, with
considerable wool, and dab the whole family once a week? The
young'uns might be soused in it every Saturday night, and the
nigger might fix the elderly folks with a whitewash brush. Then
there wouldn't be no bother a washing your clothes or yourself,
which last is an invention of the doctor to make people sick,
because it lets in the cold in winter and the heat in summer, when
natur' says shut up the porouses and keep 'em out. Besides, when
the new invention was tore at the knees or wore at the elbows,
just tell the nigger to put on the kittle and give you a dab, and
you're patched slick; and so that whole mobs of people mightn't
stick together like figs, a little sperrits of turpentine or
litharage might be added to make 'em dry like a house-a-fire. 'T
would be nice for sojers. Stand 'em all of a row, and whitewash
'em blue or red, according to pattern, as if they were a fence.
The gin'rals might look on to see if it was done according to
Gunter; the cap'ins might flourish the brush, and the corpulars
carry the bucket. Dandies could fix themselves all sorts of
streaked and all sorts of colors. When the parterials is cheap and
the making don't cost nothing, that's what I call economy, and
coming as near as possible to first principles. It's a better way,
too, of keeping out the rain, than my t'other plan of flogging
people when they're young, to make their hides hard and
water-proof. A good licking is a sound first principle for
juveniles, but they've got a prejudice agin it.'
'A pair of Slippers' brings us acquainted with another original personage,
who one dark night soliloquizes on this wise:
''I'VE not the slightest doubt that this is as beautiful a night
as ever was; only it's so dark you can't see the pattern of it.
One night is pretty much like another night in the dark; but it's
a great advantage to a good-looking evening, if the lamps are lit,
so you can twig the stars and the moonshine. The fact is, that in
this 'ere city, we do grow the blackest moons, and the hardest
moons to find, I ever did see. Lamps is lamps, and moons is moons,
in a business pint of view, but practically they ain't much if the
wicks ain't afire. When the luminaries are, as I may say, in the
raw, it's bad for me. I can't see the ground as perforately as
little fellers, and every dark night I'm sure to get a hyst;
either a forrerd hyst, or a backerd hyst, or some sort of a hyst;
but more backerds than forrerds, 'specially in winter. One of the
most unfeeling tricks I know of, is the way some folks have got of
laughing out, yaw-haw! when they see a gentleman ketching a
reg'lar hyst; a long gentleman, for instance, with his legs in the
air, and his noddle splat down upon the cold bricks. A hyst of
itself is bad enough, without being sniggered at: first, your
sconce gets a crack; then, you see all sorts of stars, and have
free admission to the fire-works; then, you scramble up, feeling
as if you had no head on your shoulders, and as if it wasn't you,
but some confounded disagreeable feller in your clothes; yet the
jacksnipes all grin, as if the misfortunes of human nature was
only a poppet show. I wouldn't mind it, if you could get up and
look as if you didn't care. But a man can't rise, after a royal
hyst, without letting on he feels flat. In such cases, however,
sympathy is all gammon; and as for sensibility of a winter's day,
people keep it all for their own noses, and can't be coaxed to
retail it by the small.'
'DILLY JONES' is one of those unfortunate wights 'just whose luck' it is
never to succeed in any thing they undertake. In a state of 'mellow'
mental abstraction, while lamenting that the trade of one's early days
might not likewise be the trade of one's latter years, he unconsciously
utters his thoughts aloud:
''SAWING wood's going all to smash,' said he, 'and that's where
every thing goes what I speculates in. This here coal is doing us
up. Ever since these black stones was brought to town, the
wood-sawyers and pilers, and them soap-fat and hickory-ashes men,
has been going down; and, for my part, I can't say as I see what's
to be the end of all their new-fangled contraptions. But it's
always so; I'm always crawling out of the little end of the horn.
I began life in a comfortable sort of a way; selling oysters out
of a wheel-barrow, all clear grit, and didn't owe nobody nothing.
Oysters went down slick enough for a while, but at last cellars
was invented, and darn the oyster, no matter how nice it was
pickled, could poor Dill sell; so I had to eat up capital and
profits myself. Then the 'pepree-pot smoking' was sot up, and went
ahead pretty considerable for a time; but a parcel of fellers come
into it, said my cats wasn't as good as their'n, when I know'd
they was as fresh as any cats in the market; and pepree-pot was no
go. Bean-soup was just as bad; people said kittens wasn't good
done that way, and the more I hollered, the more the customers
wouldn't come, and them what did, wanted tick. Along with the boys
and their pewter fips, them what got trust and didn't pay, and the
abusing of my goods, I was soon fotch'd up in the victualling
line--and I busted for the benefit of my creditors. But genius
riz. I made a raise of a horse and saw, after being a wood-piler's
prentice for a while, and working till I was free, and now here
comes the coal to knock this business in the head.' · · · 'I
WONDER if they wouldn't list me for a Charley? Hollering oysters
and bean-soup has guv' me a splendid woice; and instead of
skeering 'em away, if the thieves were to hear me singing out, my
style of doing it would almost coax 'em to come and be took up.
They'd feel like a bird when a snake is after it, and would walk
up, and poke their coat collars right into my fist. Then, after a
while, I'd perhaps be promoted to the fancy business of pig
ketching, which, though it is werry light and werry elegant,
requires genus. 'Tisn't every man that can come the scientifics in
that line, and has studied the nature of a pig, so as to beat him
at canoeuvering, and make him surrender 'cause he sees it ain't no
use of doing nothing. It wants larning to conwince them critters,
and it's only to be done by heading 'em up handsome, hopping which
ever way they hop, and tripping 'em up genteel by shaking hands
with their off hind leg. I'd scorn to pull their tails out by the
roots, or to hurt their feelin's by dragging 'em about by the
ears. But what's the use? If I was listed, they'd soon find out to
holler the hour and to ketch the thieves by steam; yes, and they'd
take 'em to court on a railroad, and try 'em with biling water.
They'll soon have black locomotives for watchmen and constables,
and big bilers for judges and mayors. Pigs will be ketched by
steam, and will be biled fit to eat before they are done
squealing. By and by, folks won't be of no use at all. There won't
be no people in the world but tea-kittles; no mouths, but
safety-valves; and no talking, but blowing off steam. If I had a
little biler inside of me, I'd turn omnibus, and week-days I'd run
from Kensington to the Navy Yard, and Sundays I'd run to
Fairmount.''
There is a world of wisdom in the syllabus, or 'argument,' prefixed to
each sketch; but for these we must refer the reader to the volume itself.
The DOGBERRYS too are as wise as their 'illustrious predecessor,' and are
quite as profuse of advice to 'the plaintiffs' who fall into their hands.
Take a single specimen: 'Take keer--don't persume; I'm a 'fishal
functionary out a-ketching of dogs. You mustn't cut up because it's night.
The mayor and the 'squires has gone to bed; but the law is a thing that
never gets asleep. After ten o'clock the law is a watchman and a
dog-ketcher; we're the whole law till breakfast's a'most ready.' 'You're a
clever enough kind of little feller, sonny; but you ain't been eddicated
to the law as I have; so I'll give you a lecture. Justice vinks at vot it
can't see, and lets them off vot it can't ketch. When you want to break
it, you must dodge. You may do what you like in your own house, and the
law don't know nothing about the matter. But never go thumping and bumping
about the streets, when you are primed and snapped. That's intemperance,
and the other is temperance. But now you come under the muzzle of the
ordinance; you're a loafer.' One of these ''fishal functionaries'
justifies extreme physical means in 'captivating obstropolous vagroms'
both by reason and distinguished precedent: 'Wolloping is the only way;
it's a panacea for differences of opinion. You'll find it in history
books, that one nation teaches another what it didn't know before by
wolloping it; that's the method of civilizing savages; the Romans put the
whole world to rights that way; and what's right on the big figger must be
right on the small scale. In short, there's nothing like wolloping for
taking the conceit out of fellows who think they know more than their
betters.' 'And so forth, et cetera,' as may be ascertained on a perusal of
the volume.
LIFE AND TIMES OF THE LATE WILLIAM ABBOTT: THIRD NOTICE.--This most
entertaining manuscript-volume, from which we have already drawn so
largely for the entertainment of our readers, has not been published in
America, as it was designed to have been, owing partly as we learn to the
fact that, through 'something like unfair dealing' toward the widow of the
writer, a copy of half the volume had been transmitted to England, parts
of which have already reached this country in the pages of a London
magazine. We had the pleasure to anticipate by a month or two the best
portions even of these printed chapters; and we proceed to select passages
from other divisions of this interesting auto-biography, which were
written out after a duplicate copy of the earlier chapters had been
transmitted to the London publisher. Mr. ABBOTT (aside from the society to
which he had the entrée on account of his professional merits,) was a
personal favorite with many of the most eminent personages among the
English nobility, with whom he was on terms of close intimacy; but we
never find him illustrating his own importance by the narration of the
social anecdotes or careless table-talk of his distinguished friends, as
too many of his contemporaries have done. He was honored with the cordial
friendship of the EARLS GLENGALL and FITZHARDING; and 'at their tables,'
he writes, 'I was a frequent guest, where I constantly met with society
embracing the highest rank and most distinguished talent in England. I
refrain, from obvious reasons, from mentioning names; but I may say that
if there was ever a class of persons who confer honor upon the society in
which they mingle, it is _the Aristocracy of Great-Britain_. There is a
delicacy and forbearance in their manner, and that air of perfect equality
which is so indicative of the accomplished gentleman and scholar. COLMAN
was a very frequent guest at these dinners, and was, with the exception
perhaps of LORD ALVANLEY, one of the most brilliant diners-out in London.'
This testimony, let us remark in passing, in favor of the ease and
simplicity of the really high-born gentlemen of England, is confirmed by
all Americans who have been well received in English society. The reader
will especially remember the tribute paid on this point by Mr. SANDERSON,
the accomplished 'American in Paris,' in his 'Familiar Letters from
London,' in these pages. But we are standing before Mr. ABBOTT. In
Edinburgh 'there lies the scene:'
'I AGAIN visited Edinburgh at the close of the Covent-Garden
season, and received the same undiminished hospitality as on a
former occasion. I established an intimacy with the BALLANTINES of
celebrated SCOTT memory. MATTHEWS was indebted to JOHN BALLANTINE
for his famous old Scotch woman, and he certainly rivalled his
preceptor in the quaint and dry humor with which he narrated that
most amusing story. The management of the Edinburgh Theatre rested
in the hands of Mr. MURRAY. He was the only son of the MURRAY
formerly of Covent-Garden Theatre, who was one of the most chaste
and impressive actors I ever saw. His Adam, in 'As you Like it,'
was really the perfection of the art. Mrs. HENRY SIDDONS, in whom
the property was vested at the death of her husband, was,
fortunately for me, residing with her charming family in
Edinburgh, and I was a constant guest at her table. Her manners
were fascinating in the extreme, and a greater compliment could
not well be paid than in having the entrée to a family so
intellectual in their resources, and so perfectly amiable in
disposition. A very amusing and agreeable club was got up by a
party of young advocates. Delightful it was, from its very
absurdity; in fact the nonsense of men of sense is an admirable
couch to repose upon. Our numbers were limited, and embraced some
of that powerful intellect which the modern Athens possesses in so
eminent degree. Mr. MILES ANGUS FLETCHER, Mr. ANDERSON, Sir
WILLIAM HAMILTON, and a son of the late and brother of the present
Lord MEADOWBANK, were among those I knew intimately, and whose
varied talents gave life and soul to the society. We scorned the
artificial light that illumined our midnight orgies, and seldom
separated before the beams of the sun were dancing in our festive
cups.'
The following account of the first _Theatrical Fund Dinner_, an
entertainment of which we hear so much latterly in England, with the
defence of actors against the charges of extravagance and improvidence so
often brought against them, will possess interest for American readers:
'THE Covent-Garden Theatrical Fund about this period was
languishing for want of support; and the great importance to be
derived from an increase of its means seriously occupied the
attention of the committee. We naturally looked upon it as
affording an opportunity of increasing the respectability of the
profession, and the means of preventing those individual appeals
to the public from our impoverished brethren. There is a popular
delusion that actors form a class in which the most reckless
profusion is displayed; that the habits of their lives are
necessarily dissipated, and that in the enjoyments of the luxuries
of to-day, the wants and cares of to-morrow are entirely lost
sight of. I do not believe in these sweeping assertions. I will
not pretend to say that actors are exempt from the frailties of
humanity; nay, I will admit that their course of life perhaps
exposes them to greater temptations; but this fact ought rather to
operate in their favor, than to tell so powerfully against them. I
would ask those persons who are so inimical to the profession of
an actor, whether longevity is the result of dissipation; and if
they will take the trouble of examining, they will find that
actors in general are extremely long-lived. There is a want of
thriftiness in their composition, I grant; and fortunately for
them the same charge is brought against the poet; the man whose
high intellectual powers prevent his descending to the level of
this work-day world. But will any one take the trouble of
explaining from whence the actor is to derive his wealth? We will
imagine that his salary is respectable, that it is regularly paid,
and that there is no excuse for his being in debt. And now take
into consideration that he has an appearance to maintain; that he
has a family to support; and then what becomes of the opportunity
of laying by a modicum even, to guard against the decline of life
when the 'winter daisies' shall crown his head, and a new race of
performers have started up and driven the others from their posts?
We have some rare instances of very large fortunes being made and
retained by members of the profession it is true, but they were
instances of dazzling genius, or had the world's belief that they
possessed it. I will take names within the memory of us all: Mrs.
SIDDONS, Mr. KEMBLE, Miss O'NEIL, the 'Young Roscius,' and the
late Mr. LEWIS; and I will add to that list men of accomplished
talents and great honor to the profession; YOUNG, BANNISTER,
MUNDEN, BRAHAM, WROUGHTON, LISTON, HARLEY, JOHNSTONE, POWER,
JONES; and I am sure the reader will believe me when I state, that
I heartily wish I could place my own name in the list. Take the
members of any other profession, however honorable, limit their
numbers and means to the same proportion, and I ask if you would
be enabled to produce a greater list of independent persons. The
great advantages to be derived from a Theatrical Fund are here I
trust made apparent; and after many suggestions, I believe it fell
to the lot of CHARLES TAYLOR to propose an annual public dinner;
and it proved a most fortunate idea. The first great point to be
obtained was a patron, and then a president for the dinner. Our
application met with immediate success, and His Royal Highness the
PRINCE REGENT condescendingly gave his name at the head of our
undertaking, accompanied by a solid mark of his favor in the
donation of one hundred pounds. We then had the gracious consent
of the DUKE OF YORK to be our President, aided by his Royal
brothers KENT and SUSSEX. The list of vice-presidents embraced
many of the most distinguished noblemen and gentlemen in the
country. In what an amiable point of view do the Royal Princes
place themselves before the public in so thoroughly identifying
themselves with the many interesting charities to which London
gives birth! The grateful spirit of joyousness which they
invariably displayed on these occasions, gave an interest to the
festive scenes, and confirmed many a heart in its loyalty to their
illustrious house. The late DUKE OF GORDON sat on the right hand
of the Royal President, and favored the company with a song, which
greatly surprised them, and elicited a general encore, and with
which, with great good humor, he immediately complied. MATTHEWS
always held a conspicuous position at these dinners, and made a
point of giving an original song, selected from his forth-coming
entertainment. The amount collected at our first dinner was
extraordinary; no less a sum than one thousand eight hundred and
seventy pounds. The Drury-Lane Fund in the following year adapted
our plan of the dinner, and both these institutions now annually
derive a very large sum from the volunteer subscriptions of the
Friends of the Drama. The same Royal patronage is most graciously
continued by her present Majesty, and Royalty continues to preside
at the festival. With this accumulation of patronage the actor may
fearlessly look forward to the close of his mortal career without
the dread of eleemosynary contributions, and also feel the proud
gratification that he has personally contributed to support so
interesting a Fund.'
As a specimen of Mr. ABBOTT'S stock-breaking and gambling experiences, we
quote the subjoined passages: