with the living to let the dead rest? Why vex their memories with
the foolery of fashion? Why make ourselves walking sign-boards,
announcing to the world, that does not care a whit about it, that we
are in this or that stage of grief?
With our fashionable mourning, we are putting a libel on immortality,
and lowering to the vulgar level of common notoriety what should be
most sacred and strictly private.
And now I suppose that, in answer to all this, somebody will fling
at me that stupid old apothegm--_De mortuis nil nisi bonum._ It
is time that maxim was exploded, or, at least, dissected, so that
it may have proper application. A, who has been a rascal all his
life, dies, and immediately we are all so tender of his reputation
that we very nearly canonize him. As soon as a man dies, it is the
universal outcry to let him rest. I do not see the slightest danger
of disturbing his rest by anything we can say or do. He will probably
lie quite as still as if we are silent. It is not probable that
he will grow indignant if we tell the exact truth about him, or
exhibit any large amount of gratification over our eulogies. In this
upper world it is quite a common thing for us to assail our dear
friends as soon as their coat-tails are over our thresholds, when
this backbiting may be cruelly unjust, and there are some of us who
require a very light stock of material to do a thriving business in
slander. We pursue our friends with defamation while living, and
while it will injure them, but when dead and past all injury, we grow
suddenly reticent and commence the rather ungracious task of eulogy,
and we usually outdo ourselves in the latter direction. Let equal
justice be done. Hold up the dead man's virtues to emulation, and his
vices to abhorrence. He is quite beyond any harm we can do him, and
if we have any tenderness to bestow on reputation, let us bestow it
on the living.
October 26, 1867.
_OUR THANKSGIVING._
We had just got up from dinner table on Thanksgiving Day and retired
to the parlor to chat--Celeste and Boosey, Aurelia and her husband
and infant, Mignon and Blanche, Old Blobbs and Mrs. Blobbs and myself.
We were all very thankful, although in divers ways. Boosey was
thankful that he had had enough to eat, and that Celeste had got
out of the Sorosis; while Celeste was thankful that Boosey had got
through the dinner safely and soberly, and had brought her home a
new hat the night before. Aurelia and Mr. Peplum were thankful for a
small stranger, who dropped in upon them a few weeks since, spoken
of above as the infant, and commonly reputed in our set to be the
handsomest and smartest baby that has had the bad luck to be born
into this world of fleeting show. Mignon was thankful that in these
silent days of the year, there is so much beauty left, and Blanche
was as thankful as a bobolink on a spray for all good things. Old
Blobbs was thankful Mrs. Blobbs had omitted her customary morning
lecture, and Mrs. Blobbs was thankful that Old Blobbs had managed to
get through his dinner without saying any disagreeable things.
As for myself, I was thankful that I was not obliged to be thankful
again for a year. It is hard upon a man to be thankful on the basis
of turkey in various culinary stages. I have not the slightest doubt
one can be thankful to Divine Providence, Who has vouchsafed, etc.,
from the depths of his stomach, and can measure his gratitude by the
pile of bones on his platter, but it involves dyspeptic possibilities
which are fearful to contemplate, and in point of thankfulness leaves
a man nowhere in comparison with a hog.
I must acknowledge, further, that it is difficult for me to see the
connection between bountiful harvests, and let us have peace, and
the mastication of turkey. Gentlemen may cry peace, peace, but there
is no peace after a Thanksgiving dinner. One might eat a bald eagle
and grow patriotic, or a goose and obtain wisdom; but why the turkey
should be singled out as the emblem of gratitude, and why we should
be called upon to express that gratitude by filling ourselves to the
brim with the self-conceited coxcomb of the barn-yard, passes my
comprehension. It seems to me that we mistake gluttony for gratitude,
and that in the immensity of our gratitude we are killing off turkeys
at a rate which must be highly unsatisfactory to the gobblers, who
are most interested in the matter. If we are to be thankful by
wholesale in this manner on Thanksgiving, why not carry the same
principle into our retail gratitude? For instance, if Potter Palmer
should come to me and say: "My dear boy, I have no further use for
that shanty on the corner of State and Washington streets; take it,"
I might go at once and eat an oyster stew as a token of my gratitude,
and if he should throw in that man and a brother with the horizontal
coat-tails, I might go one better also, and eat half a dozen raw.
When Blanche sends Mignon a little token of love and esteem, Mignon
might eat a Charlotte Russe as a proof of her gratitude, and range
from a Russe up to a moderate lunch, according to the value of the
gift. Gifts of pocket-handkerchiefs could be paid for by eating a
pickle, embroideries in Berlin wool might range as high as a chicken
wing, a volume of Tupper be atoned for by a boiled onion; while, to
express my thanks for a corner lot with a full furnished house on it,
I would risk a moderately-filled dish of pork and cabbage.
I haven't much confidence in that gratitude which strikes to a man's
stomach, or that sense of thankfulness which can only be expressed
_via_ the stomach.
This was not what we talked about when we got into the parlor, but
we undoubtedly should have discussed this topic had not Old Blobbs
suddenly broken out on his favorite theory that the world was wrong
side up. He does not believe in the present arrangement of things at
all, and I sometimes think he is more than half right. Aurelia, Mr.
Peplum and the little one were in a corner together, making a very
cozy-looking trio; Celeste and Boosey were just about to commence a
game of backgammon; Blanche was at the piano, listlessly running her
white fingers over the keys, as if she were trying to recall some old
melody which had been lost among them in departed days; Mignon sat in
the window just under the parlor ivy, which seemed to be trying to
reach down to her with its graceful curves as to something akin to it
in grace and beauty, when Old Blobbs suddenly broke out: "If I had
the management of this world, things would change places. Nothing is
in its right place."
"And how would you change them, my dear Blobbs?" said I.
"Change them!" said he. "If I could arrange men and things as
they ought to be, you would see some very poor men living in very
handsome houses, and some very rich men uncertain where they would
get their next meal. You would see some parishioners in the pulpit
and some preachers in the pews. You would see some car horses on the
front platform and some drivers harnessed to the pole. You would
see some men running down the street with tin kettles tied to their
tails, and some dogs looking on approvingly. You would see my Lady
So-and-So, who can go to the opera every night quite brave in her
laces, and diamonds, and head-gear, with no more comprehension of,
or care for, what is going on than a cow has of true and undefiled
religion, change place with some poor soul to whom music comes full
of consolation, and rest, and sympathy, and who cannot go at all.
Yes, sir," said Old Blobbs, reddening with rage, "the whole world is
wrong, all wrong. Incompetence stands in the shoes of competence. The
weak go to the wall. Dishonesty comes out ahead. Brass passes for
gold, and tin for silver. One paltry dollar will go further and make
more knees bend than all the concentrated honesty and decency of the
world since Adam delved and Eve spun. _Vive la humbug!_ The kettles
and pots go swimming down the stream because they are empty. A piece
of pure, solid metal, no matter how small, goes to the bottom."
"But," said I, "the world keeps turning round, and some day the
right must come uppermost."
Blobbs admitted that, but added: "What is the use of a man's coming
uppermost a century or two after he is dead, when there is nothing
left of him but a bone here and there, and, perhaps, nothing but a
handful of dirt, to enjoy the sensation? Why not have the world so
arranged that a decent man may, now and then, see some inducement to
continue decent, and that real merit may find its recompense without
being obliged to attain it through quackery, or enjoy it as a blessed
ghost, two or three hundred years from now?"
And all the time Blobbs was delivering his little speech, Blanche was
still hunting for the lost melody on the keys, and the ivy was still
trying to put its pretty green arms around Mignon's neck, and Celeste
was throwing double-sixes with Boosey, and Aurelia was playing with
that wonderful baby.
November 28, 1868.
_MRS. GRUNDY._
Let me whisper in your ear and tell you that Mrs. Grundy is a humbug.
I think it would be the most blessed thing that could happen in this
vale of tears if Mrs. Grundy should die. What a relief it would be to
all of us! Existence would be a boon instead of a bore.
While Mrs. Grundy lives, every man and woman is an arrant hypocrite.
While that fearful woman stands looking at us, every man and woman
is an arrant coward. We flatter ourselves, or attempt to flatter
ourselves--for there is not a man or woman who really believes
it--that we are saying and doing things from principle, when in
reality we are saying and doing them because Mrs. Grundy, in the
shape of our next door neighbor, is looking at us and talking about
us. You and I go to church and sit through services which may be
the essence of stupidity, and we put on serious faces, and sit very
primly, and regard our mortal enemy in the next slip with a lenient
face, and pretend to listen to Dr. Creamcheese's commonplaces, and go
out very solemnly--and all because Mrs. Grundy is looking at us from
every direction, and when we get home, out of Mrs. Grundy's sight,
we are ourselves again. We go through the formalities of a fast,
and rigidly abstain from the good things while Mrs. Grundy's eyes
are upon us, but the moment they are removed, we go into the larder
and indulge in the best it affords. Celeste meets with another Dear
Creature and lavishes all her affections upon her, when she does not
care a snap of her pretty little finger about her, merely because
Mrs. Grundy is looking at her. We are all of us, every day of our
lives, going through with tedious conventionalities, which we know
are conventionalities, which we do not believe in, merely because
that woman Grundy is looking at us. She makes us hypocrites in every
function of life. Thackeray struck Mrs. Grundy a blow in the face
when he drew with his satirical and powerful pencil Louis XI. in his
royal robes and Louis XI. in _puris naturalibus_. In one picture we
saw Louis XI. in the light of Mrs. Grundy. In the other we saw him as
himself. We wear a double suit; one which we know is a lie, for the
world; the other, which we know is the truth, for ourselves.
The world will get very near to the millenium when Mrs. Grundy dies.
Until that time the lion and the lamb will not lie down together. If
they do, the lion will try to convince himself that he is a lamb,
although he is aching to breakfast on him, and the lamb will try to
convince himself _he_ is a lion.
November 30, 1867.
_BEHIND THE SCENES._
So few people have any definite idea of the stage behind the scenes,
or of the little busy world that congregates there nightly, in the
production of a great spectacle like "Undine," requiring all the
resources of music, scenery, the drama and the ballet, that, a few
evenings since, I conceived it to be my duty to expose myself to
demoralization for the public good.
The great public in front of the curtain only see the beautiful
effects and the smooth movements, with no idea of the powers that are
in exercise and the hidden springs that set at work all this great
machinery. I shall not attempt to expose these secrets, but at the
same time hope to give you some conception of life on the stage.
Upon expressing my wish to the management to be demoralized for this
laudable purpose, they gave me their hearty approval, and on Tuesday
night, at half-past seven, I bade good-bye for a brief evening to the
great world outside, and passed within the realms of romance, clad in
double-proof mail of morality, invulnerable to the combined attacks
of naiads, coryphees and Amazons.
Has chaos come again? Will order ever come out of this wilderness of
scenes, ropes, weights, pulleys, calcium burners, step ladders, gauze
waters, tinseled cars, demon masks, gas tubes, sceptres, levers,
crowns, eccentric iron rods, goblets, the fabulous Rhine treasures,
tables, lounges, gongs and pistols? What secret charm is to resolve
all these into their proper places and make them fill their parts in
the production of grace and beauty?
There are few people visible on the stage. Two or three Amazons are
sitting on the banquet-table, discussing a question in political
economy, as to the relative profit of running sewing-machines and
making warlike marches under the Rhine. Two demons are engaged in a
friendly game of euchre on the Lurlei Berg, for the stage discipline
has not yet commenced. Undoubtedly, after they have accomplished
their unearthly mission, and the audience goes home, one of these
demons will enjoy stewed oysters and ale in the upper world at
the expense of the other. A coryphee is testing her pretty little
toes in Sir Hubert's skiff. The seneschal and a scene-shifter are
rehearsing Macbeth in the triumphal car which is shortly to ascend
to Heaven with Sir Hubert and Undine. There is, as yet, little life
on the stage, but it is very busy below in the dressing-rooms. The
last stitches are being made, the last touches of rouge--for even
the immortals use the same color that flushes the cheeks of Aurelia
and Celeste--are being put on. Sir Hubert is cursing his refractory
red tights. Undine is in despair over the loss of her crown, which
she will find on the stage in the possession of an Amazon, who is
strutting the boards for a brief minute as the Water Queen. Kuhleborn
is arraying himself in his spotted mail, and the large green-room
is swarming with naiads, fays and elves. The bell tinkles for the
orchestra. The call-boy rushes down the stairs and cries "All up and
dressed for the first act." His voice finds an echo above in the
prompter, who shouts "Clear the stage." How that stage was cleared
still remains a mystery to me. All the _disjecta membra_ are in
place. Outside you hear the overture, and now and then the buzz of
the audience; and an inquisitive coryphee, who has cautiously pulled
the curtain a trifle aside, informs me that it is a splendid house.
The prompter is at the first entrance. The gas man is at the wheels.
The property man is everywhere. The scene-shifters are in the wings.
Way up in the flies, in a wilderness of ropes, men are taking their
places. The calcium men are arranging their reflectors, which will
soon flood the stage with their powerful, rich light. The trap men
are at their stations. The banquet scene is set. Hubert, Baptiste,
the Pilgrim and the Knights are in the narrow space between it and
the curtain.
The Water Lily Ballet are in the wings on both sides, rattling away
in French and German, standing upon their toes, stretching their
limbs and preparing themselves for the dance. Westmael will have a
solo, but she looks dejected, faint and spiritless, and a racking
cough tells a sad story of the toil and weariness and excitement of
the ballet. She is sick to-night. Another leans her head against a
side-scene totally unmindful of what is going on in the physical
pain she is suffering. Still others look weary and sad-eyed, while
some are merry and voluble. But the great audience will know nothing
of the aches and pains, the weariness and suffering. The strong
will, the excitement and the rivalry will hide all this behind the
temporary smile and the coquetry and fascinations of the dance. The
ballet-master is hopping about from wing to wing with the proverbial
Gallic sprightliness, which will, before the evening is over, change
to utter distraction and tearing of hair at the possibility of a
_faux pas_ in the ballet or the total depravity of some leading
instruments in the orchestra, which will be tearing a rhythm to
tatters.
The orchestral prelude ceases. The stage manager casts his quick eye
over the stage and gives the word. The gas man turns on the light.
The bell tinkles and the curtain rises. While the banquet scene is
progressing, the frightful declivity of the Lurlei Berg goes into
position, and the gauzy waters of the Rhine are set, across which the
moon is sending a tinsel shimmer.
Undine hurries through the wing and mounts to the dizzy height of
the Lurlei Berg, in the meantime holding an animated conversation
with the young man below, who will gallantly help her down the sloat,
below the blue waters of the Rhine, to the Stalactite Cave, which a
score of busy hands are already preparing for her reception. A young
man in the opposite wing is preparing to play the invisible boatman
for Sir Hubert and Baptiste, while I quietly go to the bottom of the
Rhine by the down-stairs route, and anticipate the arrival of the
trio, who do not express any astonishment whatever at finding me
in the Naiad's home, but converse with each other very much in the
strain of ordinary mortals.
In the meantime, overhead, the Stalactite Cave is set, and I hear the
feet of the ballet dancers skimming over the floor. I get into the
outskirts of the Cave by means of the stairs again, meeting a mortal
on the way, eating a substantial Spitzenberg, and that Nemesis, the
call-boy, in search of some of the Immortals, to find the Water
Lily Ballet in full operation. There are no signs of weariness or
dejection now. Every face is full of expression. Every limb is posed
in elegance. There is pleasure for pain; smiles for dejection;
fascination for weariness; coquetry for listlessness; and the
Westmael, who looked so sad and weary, is flashing across the stage
like a will o' the wisp, compelling, with her wonderful steps upon
her toes, her pirouettes and postures, round upon round of applause
from the audience, which comes to me behind the scenes like the
pattering of rain upon the shingles, what time her rival, Venturola,
already dressed for her solo in the Fish Ballet of the next act, is
standing near me, closely scrutinizing, with her keen black eyes and
nervous manner, every step of her great rival. Westmael comes off,
panting like a deer in the chase. All the smiles and fascinations
have gone, and in their place the weariness and sadness return to her
face, and even Venturola regards her with pity, and the other dancers
speak to her in low tones. She passes slowly, almost feebly, to her
dressing-room, dropping the bouquet upon the floor which a frantic
young man in front, with crimson face, has tossed to her.
Will it comfort that frantic young man to know that an Amazon picks
up the emblem of his devotion at the shrine of Terpsichore, and that
she will probably convey it to her home on Archer Avenue, where it
will waste its sweetness on the desert air? I would not ruthlessly
turn iconoclast to his aspirations by intimating that all his
bouquets have gone to Amazonian abodes on that avenue. I would let
him down easily from the heights of aspiration and the stars of
devotion to the depths of content and the earth of common regard. His
bouquet has helped to swell the triumph, to set the seal of success.
That ends its little mission. It will hardly be preserved in wax for
an eternity of memory. Its delicate beauty will not long survive in
the warlike abodes of the Amazons.
But the ballet is over, and Undine and the good Knight, Sir Hubert,
mount the triumphal car, which has just arrived from the bottom of
the Rhine, and commence going to Heaven, with which ascent the men in
the wilderness of ropes, up in the roof-tree, have some mysterious
connection. The audience desiring a second view, the vehicle kindly
pauses in its upward flight for a minute, and the curtain falls.
For the information of the audience, I am warranted in stating that
they did not get to Heaven, as I was on the Lurlei Berg when they
descended, and have reason to know that both Undine and Sir Hubert
went by the down-stairs route to the bottom of the Rhine again, to
make ready for another act, what time the Nemesis of a call-boy shall
make his appearance among the Immortals and summon them again to
their work.
While John Henry in the audience steps out to see a man; while Young
Boosey is telling Celestina his experiences at the _Biche au Bois_,
in Paris; while the newly-married couple from Kankakee, who have
never done the ballet before, are discussing its propriety, and the
policy of not mentioning it to the old folks, the orchestra has drawn
itself into its room, as a turtle draws its head into its shell, and
proceeds immediately to beer.
If there is one part of the music which the orchestra can execute
better than another, it is the moistening of the whistle. To an
unbiased observer, the amount of beer which the trombone and
double-bass, for instance, can absorb is simply remarkable, while
the quantity which the small first violins and piccolo can hold,
is appalling to the aforesaid unbiased observer, but calculated to
induce cheerfulness on the part of heavy brewers and a sense of
gratitude to the makers of that class of porous instruments.
The Lurlei Berg with its dangerous descent, the boat practical and
all that part of the country about the Rhine is put out of the way
for the evening, for in the next act we shall all be at the bottom
of the Rhine, among the fish, who are now arraying themselves for
the dance, in spangles and scaly armor of gold and silver. Meantime
the call-boy is sent up for Undine and the gas-man for Sir Hubert,
and the demons are rehearsing at them. A mild young man with whom
I was talking on the Lurlei Berg, a few minutes ago, as we stood
together and watched the moonlight wavering in the ripples of the
Rhine, who might from his looks have been one of those good young men
who die early, is in the infuriated crowd, with a nugget of silver
for a head, nondescript raiment on his body, and a huge club in hand
rushing wildly towards me and looking like an exaggerated type of the
Jibbenainosay.
Which is only another mournful instance of the truth of the remark
that "things are not what they seem."
In the middle of the stage, exposed to the view of all, at the bottom
of the Rhine, are fabulous piles of gold, silver and jewels, heaped
up on a table, and carelessly left without any watchman. The amount
and value of these treasures I would not like to estimate, nor the
temptation which I experienced to appropriate a solitary jewel, which
might have made my fortune when I returned to the upper earth. As I
am meditating on the expediency of it, two ruffianly looking demons
of the most hideous description mount the table and significantly
lean upon their clubs, as if inviting somebody to try it on. One of
them glances at me, and I decline the experiment.