Pencil Sketches: or, Outlines of Character and Manners

PETER JONES.

A SKETCH FROM LIFE

"Let the players be cared for." – Shakspeare.

In the early part of the present century, there lived in one of the long streets in the south-eastern section of Philadelphia, a tailor, whom we shall introduce to our readers by the name of Peter Jones. His old-fashioned residence, which (strange to say) is yet standing, was not then put out of countenance by the modern-built structures that have since been run up on each side of it. There were, it is true, three or four new houses nearly opposite, all of them tenanted by genteel families – but Peter's side of the way (at least for the length of a square), was yet untouched by the hand of improvement, his own domicile being the largest and best in the row, and moreover of three stories – an advantage not possessed by the others. It had a square-topped door lighted by three small square panes – the parlour window (there was but one) being glazed to match, also with small glass and heavy wood work. The blue-painted wooden door-step was furnished with a very convenient seat, denominated the porch, and sheltered above by a moss-grown pent-house. The whole front of the mansion was shaded by an enormous buttonwood tree, that looked as if it had been spared from the primeval forest by the axe of a companion of William Penn. The house, indeed, might have been the country seat of one of the early colonists. Under this tree stood a pump of excellent water.

Adjoining to the house was a little low blue frame, fronting also the 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.