street--and no ground speculator could pass it without sighing to think
that so valuable a lot should be thus wasted. But Peter Jones owned both
house and shop--his circumstances were comfortable, his tastes and
ideas the reverse of elegant, and he had sense enough to perceive that
in attempting a superior style of life he should be out of his element,
and therefore less happy. Assisted at times by a journeyman, he
continued to work at his trade because he was used to it, and that he
might still have the enjoyment of making clothes for three or four
veterans of the revolution; and also for two old judges, who had been in
Congress in those sensible times when that well-chosen body acted more
and talked less. All these sexagenarians, having been enamoured of Peter
Jones's cut when he was the Watson of his day, still retained their
predilection for it; liking also to feel at ease in their own clothes,
and not to wear garments that seemed as if borrowed from "the sons of
little men." These gentlemen of the old school never passed without
stopping at the shop window to chat a few words with Peter; sometimes
stepping in, and taking a seat on his green Windsor chair--himself
always occupying the shop-board, whether he was at work or not.
Our hero, though a tailor, was a tall, stout, ruddy, well-looking old
man, having a fine capacious forehead, thinly shaded with gray hair,
which was tied behind in a queue, and a clear, lively blue eye. He had
acquired something of a martial air while assisting in the war of
Independence, by making regimental coats--and no doubt this assistance
was of considerable importance to the cause, it being then supposed that
all men, even Americans, fight better, and endure hardships longer, when
dressed in uniform.
Peter Jones was a very popular man among his neighbours, being frank,
good-natured, and clever in all manner of things. As soon as the new
houses opposite were occupied, he made acquaintance with their
inhabitants, who all regarded him as what is called a character; and he
never abused the degree of familiarity to which they admitted him. He
was considered a sort of walking directory--but when applied to, by a
new settler, for the "whereabout" of a carpenter who might be wanted for
a job, his usual answer was--"I believe I will bring over my saw and
plane, and do it myself"--also, if a lock-smith or bell-hanger was
inquired for, Peter Jones generally came himself, and repaired the lock
or re-fixed the bell; just as skilfully as if he had been "to the manner
born."
He took several of the opposite gardens under his special protection,
and supplied them with seeds and roots from his own stock. He was as
proud of their morning-glories, queen margarets, johny-jump-ups,
daffydowndillies (for so in primitive parlance he called all these
beautiful flowers), as if they had been produced in his own rather
extensive ground, which was always in fine order, and to see which he
often invited his neighbouring fellow-citizens. In flower season, he was
rarely seen without a sprig or two in one of the button-holes of his
lengthy waistcoat, for in warm weather he seldom wore a coat except on
Sundays and on the Fourth of July, when he appeared in a well-kept,
fresh-looking garment of bottle-green with large yellow buttons, a very
long body, and a broad, short skirt.
His wife, Martha, was a plump, notable, quiet, pleasant-faced woman,
aged about fifty-five, but very old-fashioned in looks and ideas. During
the morning, when she assisted her servant girl, Mrs. Jones wore a
calico short gown, a stuff petticoat, and a check-apron, with a close
muslin cap--in the afternoon her costume was a calico long gown, a white
linen apron, and a thinner muslin cap with brown ribbon; and on Sundays
a silk gown, a clear muslin apron, and a still thinner and much larger
cap trimmed with gray ribbon. Everything about them had an air of homely
comfort, and they lived plainly and substantially. Peter brought home
every morning on his arm an amply-filled market basket; but on Sundays
their girl was always seen, before church time, carrying to the baker's
a waiter containing a large dish that held a piece of meat mounted on a
trivet with abundance of potatoes around and beneath, and also a huge
pudding in a tin pan.
Peter Jones, who proportioned all his expenses so as to keep an even
balance, allowed himself and his wife to go once in the season to the
theatre, and that was on the anniversary of their wedding, an event of
which he informed his neighbours he had never found cause to repent.
This custom had been commenced the first year of their marriage, and
continued ever since; and as their plays were few and far between, they
enjoyed them with all the zest of novices in the amusement. To them
every actor was good, and every play was excellent; the last being
generally considered the best. They were not sufficiently familiar with
the drama to be fastidious in their taste; and happily for them, they
were entirely ignorant of both the theory and practice of criticism. To
them a visit to the theatre was a great event; and on the preceding
afternoon the neighbours always observed symptoms of restlessness in
Peter, and a manifest disinclination to settle himself to anything.
Before going to bed, he regularly, on the eve of this important day,
went round to the theatre to look at the bills that are displayed in the
vestibule a night in advance; being too impatient to wait for the
announcement in the morning papers. When the play-day actually came, he
shut up his shop at noon, and they had an earlier and better dinner than
usual. About three, Peter appeared in full dress with a ruffled shirt
and white cravat, wandering up and down the pavement, going in and out
at the front-door, singing, whistling, throwing up his stick and
catching it, stopping every one he knew, to have a talk with them on
theatricals, and trying every device to while away the intervening
hours. At four, the tea-table was set, that they might get over the
repast in good time, and, as Mrs. Jones said, "have it off their minds."
The play-day was late in the spring, and near the close of the season;
and while the sun was yet far above the horizon, Mr. and Mrs. Jones
issued from their door, and walked off, arm-in-arm, with that peculiar
gait that people always adopt when going to the theatre: he swinging his
clouded cane with its ivory top and buckskin tassel, and she fanning
herself already with a huge green fan with black sticks; and ambling
along in her best shoes and stockings, and her annual silk gown, which,
on this occasion, she always put on new.
As they went but once a year, they determined on doing the thing
respectably, and on having the best possible view of the stage;
therefore they always took seats in an upper front box. Arriving so
early, they had ample time to witness the gradual filling of the house,
and to conjecture who was coming whenever a box door was thrown open. To
be sure, Peter had frequent recourse to his thick, heavy, but unerring
silver watch, and when he found that it still wanted three quarters of
an hour of the time for the curtain to rise, his wife sagely remarked to
him that it was better to be even two hours too early than two minutes
too late; and that they might as well get over the time in sitting in
the play-house as in sitting at home. Their faces always brightened
exceedingly when the musicians first began to emerge from the subterrany
below, and took their places in the orchestra. Mrs. Jones pitied
extremely those that were seated with their backs to the stage, and
amusing herself with counting the fiddles, and observing how gradually
they diminished in size from the bass viol down; till her husband
explained to her that they diminished up rather than down, the smallest
fiddle being held by the boss or foreman of the band. Great was their
joy (and particularly that of Peter), when the increasing loudness of
the instruments proclaimed that the overture was about to finish; when
glimpses of feet appearing below the green curtain, denoted that the
actors were taking their places on the stage, when the welcome tingle of
the long-wished-for bell turned their eyes exultingly to the upward
glide of the barrier that had so long interposed between them and
felicity.
Many a listless and fastidious gentleman, having satiated himself with
the theatre by the nightly use of a season ticket (that certain
destroyer of all relish for dramatic amusements), might have envied in
our plain and simple-minded mechanic the freshness of sensation, the
unswerving interest, and the unqualified pleasure with which he regarded
the wonders of the histrionic world.
To watch Peter Jones at his annual play was as amusing as to look at the
performance itself (and sometimes much more so), such was his earnest
attention, and his vivid enjoyment of the whole; as testified by the
glee of his laugh, the heartiness of his applause, and the energy with
which he joined in an encore. If it chanced to be a tragedy, he consoled
his wife in what she called the "forepart of her tears," by reminding
her that it was only a play; but as the pathos of the scene increased,
he always caught himself first wiping his eyes with the back of his
hand; then blowing his nose, trumpetwise, with his clean bandanna
pocket-handkerchief; and then calling himself a fool for crying. Like
Addison's trunk-maker, he frequently led the clap; and on Peter Jones's
night there was certainly more applause than usual. The kindness of his
heart, however, would never allow him to join in a hiss, assuring those
about him that the actors and the play-writers always did their best,
and that if they failed it was their misfortune, and not their fault.
That all the old observances of the theatre might be duly observed, he
failed not to produce between the play and farce an ample supply of what
children denominate "goodies," as a regale for Mrs. Jones and himself;
also presenting them all round to every one within his reach; and if
there were any little boys and girls in the vicinity, he always produced
a double quantity.
It is unnecessary to say that Mr. and Mrs. Jones always stayed to the
extreme last; not quitting their seats till the curtain had descended to
the very floor, and shut from their view, for another year, the bows
and curtsies of the actors at the final of the _finale_ in the
concluding scene of the after-piece. Then our happy old couple walked
leisurely home, and had a supper of cold meat and pickles, and roasted
potatoes; and talked of the play over the supper-table; and also over
the breakfast-table next morning; and also to all their acquaintances
for a month or two afterwards.
In those days, when Peter Jones found the enjoyment of one play
sufficient to last him a twelvemonth, the Philadelphia theatre was in
its "high and palmy state." There was an excellent stock company, with a
continual succession of new pieces, or judicious revivals of old ones of
standard worth. The starring system, as it is called, did not then
prevail. The performers, having permanent engagements, were satisfied to
do their duty towards an audience with whose tastes they were familiar.
Each actor could play an infinite number of parts--each singer could
sing an infinity of songs--and all considered it a portion of their
business to learn new characters, or new music.
Having seen Mr. Bluster in Hamlet, Pierre, and Romeo, we were not
expected, after a short interval, to crowd again to the theatre to
applaud Mr. Fluster in Romeo, Pierre, and Hamlet. Having laughed
sufficiently at Mr. Skipabout in Young Rapid, Bob Handy, and Rover, we
were not then required, in the lapse of a few weeks, to laugh likewise
at Mr. Tripabout in Rover, Bob Handy, and Young Rapid. Also, if we had
been properly enraptured with Madam Dagolini Dobson in Rosina and
Rosetta, we were not compelled, almost immediately, to re-prepare our
_bravos_ and _bravissimas_ for Madame Jomellini Jobson in Rosetta and
Rosina.
The list of acting plays was not then reduced to about five comedies,
and six tragedies; served out night after night, not in the alternate
variety of one of each sort successively, but with a course of tragedy
for a hero of the buskin, and a course of comedy for the fortunate man
that was able to personate a lively _gentleman_. Neither were the lovers
of vocal harmony obliged to content themselves with the perpetual
repetition of four musical pieces, regularly produced, "when certain
stars shot madly from their spheres" in the brilliant and _recherché_
opera-houses of Europe (where princes and kings pay for a song in
diamonds), to waste their glories on yankees, buckeyes, and tuckahoes,
whose only idea of pay is in the inelegant form of things called
dollars.
It is true that in those days the machinery and decorations of the
Philadelphia stage, and the costume of the actors, were far inferior to
the _materiel_ of the present time; but there was always a regular
company of sterling excellence, the pieces were various and well
selected, and the audience was satisfied.
Years had passed on, and Peter and Martha Jones were still "keeping the
even tenor of their way," and enjoying the anniversary play with all
their might, when a house on the other side of the street was taken by a
respectable hair-dresser, whose window soon exhibited all the emblems of
his profession, arranged with peculiar taste, and among them an unusual
assortment of wigs for both sexes.
Now, if Mrs. Jones had a failing (and who is perfect), it was in
indulging a sort of anti-barber prejudice, very unaccountable,
certainly--but so are most prejudices. This induced her rather to
discourage all demonstrations of her husband's usual disposition to make
acquaintance with the new neighbours, whom she set down in her own mind
as "queer people"--a very comprehensive term. To be sure, Mr. Dodcomb's
looks and deportment differed not materially from those of any other
hair-dresser; but Peter Jones could not help agreeing that the
appearance of his family were much at variance with the imputed virtues
of the numerous beautifying specifics that were set forth in his shop.
For instance, notwithstanding the infallibility of his lotions and
emollients, and creams and pastes, the face and neck of Mrs. Dodcomb
obstinately persisted in remaining wrinkled, yellow, speckled, and
spotty. And in spite of Macassar oil, and bear's oil, and other certain
promoters of luxuriant, soft, and glossy tresses, her locks continued
scanty, stringy, stiff, and disorderly. By-the-bye, though there were
"plenty more in the shop," she always wore a comb whose teeth were "few
and far between."
Though Mr. Dodcomb professed to cut hair in a style of unrivalled
elegance, the hair of his children was sheared to the quick, their heads
looking nearly as bald as if shaved with a razor; and this phrenological
display was rather unbecoming to the juvenile Dodcombs, as their ears
were singularly prominent and donkey-like. Then as to skin, the faces of
the boys were sadly freckled, and those of the girls surprisingly coarse
and rough.
Mrs. Jones came to a conclusion that their new neighbour must be a
remarkably close man, and unwilling to waste any of his stock in trade
upon his own family; and Peter thought it would be more politic in Mr.
Dodcomb to use his wife and children as pattern cards, exhibiting on
their heads and faces the success of his commodities; which Mrs. Jones
unamiably suspected to be all trash and trickery, and far inferior to
plain soap and water.
Things were in this state when election day came; and on the following
morning Mr. Dodcomb came over to look at Mr. Jones's newspaper, and see
the returns of the city and county; complaining that ever since he had
lived in the neighbourhood, his own paper had been shamefully purloined
from the handle of the door so early as before the shop was open. To
steal a newspaper appeared to honest Peter the very climax of felony,
for, as he said, it was stealing a man's sense and knowledge; and, being
himself the earliest riser in the neighbourhood, he volunteered to watch
for the offender. This he did by rising with the first blush of dawn,
and promenading the pavement, stick in hand. It was not long before he
discovered the abstractor in the person of an ever-briefless lawyerling,
belonging to the only family in the neighbourhood who professed
aristocracy, and discountenanced Peter Jones. And our indignant old hero
saw "the young gentleman of rank" issue scarcely half dressed from his
own door, pounce rapidly upon the newspaper, and carry it off. "Stop
thief!--stop thief!" was loudly vociferated by Peter, who, brandishing
his stick, made directly across the street, and the astonished culprit
immediately dropped the paper, and took refuge in his own patrician
mansion.
As soon as the Dodcomb house was opened, Peter Jones went over with the
trophy of his success. Mr. Dodcomb was profuse of thanks, making some
remarkably handsome speeches on the occasion, and Peter went home and
assured his wife that, though a barber, their new neighbour was a very
clever man and well worth knowing. Mrs. Jones immediately saw things in
their proper light, did not perceive that the Dodcombs were at all
queerer than other people, concluded that they had a right to look as
they pleased, and imputed their indifference to hair and cosmetics to
the probability that they were surfeited with the sight of both; as
confectioners never eat cakes, and shoemakers' families are said to go
barefoot.
The same evening, Mrs. Jones accompanied her husband to make a
neighbourly visit to the Dodcombs, whom, to their great surprise, they
found to be extremely _au-fait_ of the theatre; Mr. Dodcomb being barber
to that establishment, and his sister-in-law, Miss Sarah Ann Flimbrey,
one of the dressmakers.
The progress of the intimacy between the Jones and Dodcomb families now
increased rapidly, making prodigious strides every day. By the next
week, which was the beginning of January, they had made up a party to go
together to the theatre on New Year's night; Peter Jones having been
actually and wonderfully over-persuaded to break through his
time-honoured custom of going but once a twelvemonth. The Dodcombs had
an irregular way of seeing the plays from between the scenes, from the
flies over the stage, and from all other inconvenient and uncomfortable
places where they could slip in "by virtue of their office;" but on New
Year's night they always went in form, taking a front box up stairs,
that their children might have an uninterrupted view of the whole show;
Mr. Dodcomb on that evening employing a deputy to arrange the heads of
the performers.
Early on New Year's morning, Peter Jones put into the hands of his
neighbour two dollars, to pay for the tickets of himself and wife; and
during the remainder of the day (which, fortunately for him, was at this
season a very short one) he had his usual difficulty in getting through
the time.
It was in vain that the Joneses were dressed at an early hour and had
their usual early tea. The Dodcombs (to whom the theatre was no novelty)
did not hurry with _their_ preparations, and on Peter going over to see
if they were ready, he found them all in their usual dishabille, and
their maid just beginning to set the tea-table. That people (under any
circumstances) could be so dilatory with a play in prospect, presented
to the mind of the astonished Peter a new view of the varieties of the
human species. But as all things must have an end, so at last had the
tea-drinking of the Dodcombs; and luckily their toilets did not occupy
much time, for they only put themselves in full dress from their waist
upward; to the great surprise of Mrs. Jones, who was somewhat
scandalized at their oldish shoes and dirtyish stockings.
To the utter dismay of the Joneses, the curtain, for the first time in
their lives, was up when they arrived; and to this misfortune the
Dodcombs did not seem to attach the least consequence, assuring them
that in losing the first scene of a play they lost nothing.
The five children were ranged in front, each of the three girls wearing
a rose-bud on one side of her closely trimmed head, which rose-bud, as
Mrs. Jones afterwards averred to her husband, must have been stuck there
and held in its place by some hocus pocus, which no one but a play-house
barber could contrive or execute. During the progress of the play, which
was a melo-drama of what is called "thrilling interest," Peter Jones,
who always himself paid the most exemplary attention to the scene before
him, was annoyed to find that his wife was continually drawn in to talk,
by the example of Mrs. Dodcomb and Miss Flimbrey, one of whom sat on
each side of her, and who both kept up a running fire of questions,
answers, and remarks during the whole of the performance--plays, as they
said, being mere drugs to them.
"How do you like that scarlet and gold dress?" said Mrs. Dodcomb.
"Oh! it's beautiful!" replied Mrs. Jones, "and he's a beautiful man that
wears it! What handsome legs he has?--and what a white neck for a
man!--and such fine curly hair--"
"You would not say so," said Mrs. Dodcomb, "if you were to see him in
daylight without his paint, and without his chestnut wig (they have all
sorts of wigs, even flax, tow, and yarn). His natural face and hair are
both of the same clay-colour. As to his neck, it's nothing when it is
not coated all over with whitening--and then his stage legs are always
padded."
"Mr. Jones, you are a judge of those things--what do you suppose that
man's dress is made of?" asked Mr. Dodcomb.
"Scarlet cloth and gold lace."
"Fudge! it's only red flannel, trimmed with copper binding."
"I'm sorry to hear that," observed Mrs. Jones--and during the remainder
of the piece she designated him as "the man in the flannel jacket."
"That's a pretty hat of his sweetheart's," she remarked, "that gauze hat
with the long white feathers--how light and airy it looks!"
Miss Flimbrey now giggled. "I made it myself, this morning," said she,
"it's only thin catgut, with nothing at all outside--but at a distance,
it certainly may be taken for transparent gauze."
From this time Mrs. Jones distinguished the actress as "the woman with
the catgut hat."
The hero of the piece appeared in a new and magnificent dress, which was
very much applauded, as new and showy dresses frequently are. It was a
purple velvet, decorated profusely with gold ornaments, somewhat
resembling rows of very large buttons; each button being raised or
relieved in the centre, and having a flat rim round the edge. They went
up all the seams of the back, and down the front of the jacket, and
round the cuffs; and, being very bright and very close together, the
effect was rich and unique. Also, one of them fastened the plume and
looped up the hat, and two others glittered in the rosettes of the
shoes.
"Oh! how grand!--how very grand!" exclaimed Mrs. Jones. "This dress
beats all the others!"
"Upon my word, that trimming is fine," said Peter.
"Ain't they big gold buttons, put very close together?" asked his wife.
"Why, no," replied Peter. "They ain't buttons at all--not one of them.
Surely I ought to know buttons, when they _are_ buttons. I can't make
out these things exactly. But they're handsome, however."
Mr. Dodcomb now began to laugh. "I'll tell you," said he, "the history
of these new-fashioned ornaments. It was a bright idea of the actor's
own when he was planning his new dress. He went to one of the great
hardware stores in Market Street, and bought I don't know how many gross
of those shining covers that are put over the screw-holes of bedsteads
to hide the screws, and that are fastened on by a small thing at the top
of each, like a loop, having a hole for a little screw, to fix them
tight in their places. And these holes in the loops were just convenient
for the needle to go through when they were sewed on to the dress. So
you see what a good show they make now."
"Of all contrivances!" exclaimed Peter. "To think that bed-screw covers
should trim so well!"
"Wonders will never cease!" ejaculated Mrs. Jones. And whenever the
actor reappeared, she jogged her husband, and reminded him that "here
came the man all over bed-screws."
"What beautiful lace cuffs and collars all those gentlemen have, that
are gallanting the ladies to the feast!" said Mrs. Jones.
"Cut paper, my dear--only cut paper," replied Mrs. Dodcomb. "Sally
Flimbrey cuts them out herself--don't you, Sally?"
Miss Flimbrey (who was not proud), nodded in the affirmative--"You would
never guess," said she, "my dear Mrs. Jones, what odd contrivances they
have--did you observe the milk-maid's pail in the cottage scene?"
"Yes--it was full to the brim of fine frothy new milk--I should like to
have taken a drink of it."
"You would have found it pretty hard to swallow, for it was only cotton
wadding," said Miss Flimbrey.
"Well now! if ever I heard the beat of that!" interjected Mrs. Jones.
"How do you like the thunder and lightning?" said Mr. Dodcomb to Mr.
Jones.
"It's fine," replied Peter, "and very natural."