The Humors of Falconbridge Part 50

Mr. Davenport--the "Ned Davenport" of the Bowery boys--before sailing for Europe and while attached to the Bowery Theatre, was of the lean and hungry kind. In fact he was extremely lean--tall as a may-pole, and slender enough to crawl through a greased _fleute_,--to use a yankeeism.

Somebody "up" for Shylock one night, at the Bowery, was suddenly "indisposed" or, in the strongest probability, quite stupefied from the effect of the deadly poisons retailed in the numerous groggeries that really swarm near the Gotham play-houses. Well, Mr. Davenport--a gentleman who has reached a most honorable position in his profession by sobriety and talent--was subst.i.tuted for the indisposed _Shylock_, and the play went on.

In the trial scene, Mr. Davenport really "took down the house" by his vehemence, and his ferocious, lean, and hungry aspirations for the pound of fles.h.!.+ One of the b'hoys, so identical with the B'ow'ry pit, got quite worked up; he twisted and squirmed, he chewed his cud, he stroked his "soap-lock," but, finally, wrought up to great presence of mind,--our lean Shylock still calling for his pound of flesh,--roars out;--

"S'ay, look a' here,--_why don't you give skinny de meat, don't you see he wants it, sa-a-a-y!_"

We very naturally infer that "the piece" _went off with a rus.h.!.+_

The Skipper's Schooner.

No better specimen of the genus, genuine Yankee nation, can be found, imagined or described, than the skippers of along sh.o.r.e, from Connecticut river to Eastport, Maine. These critters give full scope to the Hills and Hacketts of the stage, and the Sam Slicks and Falconbridges of the press, to embody and sketch out in the broadest possible dialect of Yankee land. One of these "tarnal critters," it is my purpose to draw on for my brief sketch, and I wish my readers to do me the credit to believe that for little or no portion of my yarn or language am I indebted to fertility of imagination, as the incidents are real, and quite graphic enough to give piquancy to the subject.

Last spring, just after the breaking up of winter, a down-east smack or schooner, freighted with cod-fish and potatoes, I believe, rounded off Cape Ann light, and owing to head winds, or some other perversity of a nautical nature, could no further go; so the skipper and his crew--one man, green as catnip--made for an anchorage, and hove the "hull consarn"

to. Here they lay, and tossed and chafed, at their moorings, for a day or two, without the slightest indication on the part of the weather to abate the nuisance. So the commander of the schooner got in his little "dug-out," and giving the aforesaid crew special injunctions to keep all fast, he pulled off to sh.o.r.e to take a look around.

Now, it so fell out that in the course of a few hours' time after the departure of the skipper, a snorting east wind sprang up, and not only blew great guns, but chopped up a short, heavy sea, perfectly astonis.h.i.+ng and alarming to Hezekiah Perkins, in the rolling and pitching schooner. It was Hez's first attempt at seafaring; and this sort of reeling and waltzing about, as a matter of course, soon dis...o...b..berated his bean basket, and set his head in a whirl and dancing motion--better conceived by those who have seen the sea elephant than described. Hez got dea-a-athly sick, so sick he could not budge from the stern sheets, where he had taken a squat in the early commencement of his difficulties. In the mean time, the skipper came down to the beach and hailed the victim:

"Hel-LO! hel-LO!"

Hez feebly elevated his optics, and looking to the windward, where stood his n.o.ble captain, he made an effort to say over something:

"Wha-a-t ye-e-e want?"

"What do I want? Why, yeou pesky critter, yeou, go for'ard thar and hist the jib, take up the anchor, put your helm a-lee, and beat up to town!"

This was all very well, provided the skipper was there to superintend, manage and carry out his voluble orders; but as the surf prevented him from coming on board, and the lightness of Hez's head militated against the almost superhuman possibility of carrying out the skipper's orders, things remained _in statu quo_, the skipper ash.o.r.e, and Hez fervently wis.h.i.+ng he was too.

"Ain't you a-going to stir round there, and save the vessel?" bawled the excited captain.

"How on airth," groaned the horror-stricken mariner, "how on airth am I to help it?"

"Wall, by Columbus, she'll go clean ash.o.r.e, or blow eout to sea afore long, sure as death!" responded the skipper; and before he had fairly concluded his augury, sure enough, the halser parted, the schooner slew round and made a bee-line _for Cowes and a market!_ This rather brought Hezekiah to his oats--he riz, tottering and feeble, on his shaky pins, and crawled forward to get up the jib.

"O ye-s, now yeou're coming about it, yes, yeou be," bawled the almost frantic skipper, as the distance between him and his vessel was increasing. "Put her abeout and head her up the ba-a-y!" But it was no kind of use in talking, for Hezekiah could not raise the jib; and his imperfect nautical knowledge, under such a snarl, completely bewildered and disgusted him with the prospect. So saying over the seven commandments and other serious lessons of youth, Hezekiah resigned himself to the tumultuous elements, and concluded it philosophical and scriptural resignation to let Providence and the old schooner fix out the programme just as they might. It is commonly reported, that our mackerel catchers, when a storm or gale overtakes them on the briny deep, lash all fast and go below, turn in and let their smacks rip along to the best of their knowledge and ability. They seldom founder or get severely scathed; and these facts, or perfect indifference, having entered the head of Hezekiah Perkins, he became perfectly unconcerned as to future developments. Night coming on, the skipper saw his schooner fast departing out to sea, and when she was no longer to be seen, he made tracks for Boston, to report the melancholy facts to the owners of the vessel and cargo, and see about the insurance.

Next morning, the skipper having discovered that the insurance was safe, he found himself in better spirits; so he walked down along the wharves, to take a look out upon the bay and s.h.i.+pping--when lo, and behold, he sees a vessel so amazingly like his Two Pollies, that he could not refrain from exclaiming:

"Hurrah! hurrah! By Christopher Columbus--if thar don't come my old beauty and Hez Perkins, too--hurrah!"

The overjoyed skipper went off into a double hornpipe on a single string; and as the veritable schooner came booming saucily up the bay before a spanking breeze, with her jib spread, the skipper called out in a voice of thunder and gladness:

"Hel-lo! Hez Perkins, is that yeou?"

"Hel-lo! Cap'n, I'm coming, by pumpkins! Clear the track for the Two Pollies!" And putting her head in among the smacks of Long Wharf, Hez let her rip and smash chock up fast and tight. When the captain landed on his own deck, he rushed into the arms of his brave mate Hezekiah, and they had a regular fraternal hug all round--and Hezekiah Perkins, in behalf of his wonderful skill, perseverance and luck, was unanimously voted first mate of the Two Pollies on the spot. It appeared that a change of wind during the night had driven the wandering vessel back into the bay, and Hezekiah, having got over his sick spell by daylight, crawled forward, got up the jib, and actually made the wharf, as we have described.

Philosophy of the Times.

The philosophy of the present age is peculiarly the philosophy of outsides. Few dive deeper into the human breast than the bosom of the s.h.i.+rt. Who could doubt the heart that beats beneath a cambric front? or who imagine that hand accustomed to dirty work which is enveloped in white kid? What Prometheus was to the physical, the tailor is to the moral man--the one made human beings out of clay, the other cuts characters out of broadcloth. Gentility is, with us, a thing of the goose and shears.

The Emperor and the Poor Author.

"The pen is mightier than the sword."

Great men are not the less liable or addicted to very small, and very mean, and sometimes very _rascally acts_, but they are always fortunate in having any amount of panegyric graven on marble slabs, shafts and pillars, o'er their dust, and eulogistic and profound histories written in memories of the deeds of renown and glory they have executed. An American 74-gun s.h.i.+p would hardly float the mountains of _tomes_ written upon Bonaparte and his brilliant career, as a soldier and a conqueror; but how precious few, insignificant pages do we ever see of the misdeeds, tyrannies and acts of petty and contemptuous meanness so great a man was guilty of! Why should authors and orators be so reluctant to tell the truth of a great man's follies and crimes, seeing with what convenience and fluency they will _lie_ for him? We contend, and shall contend, that a truly great man cannot be guilty of a small act, and that one contemptible or atrocious manifestation in man, is enough to sully--tarnish the brightness of a dozen brilliant deeds; but apparently, the accepted notion is--_vice versa_.

In 1830, there lived in the city of Philadelphia, a barber, a poor, harmless, necessary barber. His antique, or most curious costume, attracted much attention about the vicinity in which he lived, and no doubt added somewhat to the custom of his shop, itself a _bijou_ as curious almost as the proprietor. But as our story has but little to do with the queer outside of the _barber_ or his _shop_, and we do not now purpose a whole history of the man, we shall at once proceed to the pith of our subject--the Emperor and the poor Author, or Napoleon and his Spies--and in which our aforesaid Philadelphia barber plays a conspicuous part.

Some of the writers, a few of those partially daring enough to give an impartial _expose_ of the history of the Bonapartean times, seem to think that Napoleon committed a great error in his accession to the throne, by doubting the stability of his reign, and having pursued exactly measures antipodean to those necessary to seat him firmly in the hearts of the people, and cement the foundation of his newly-acquired power. But we don't think so; the means by which he obtained the giddy height, to a comprehensive mind like his, at once suggested the necessity of vigilance, promptness, and unflinching execution of whatever act, however tyrannous or heartless it might have been, his unsleeping mind suggested--

"Crowns got with blood, by blood must be maintained."

Jealous and suspicious, he sought to shackle public opinion--the fearful hydra to all ambitious aspirants--to know all _secrets_ of the time and states, and render one half of the great nations he held in his grasp spies upon the other! The most profligate principles of Machiavel sink into obscurity when contrasted with the Imperial _Espionage_ of Napoleon. When no longer moving squadrons in the tented field--whole armies, like so many pieces of chess in the hands of a dexterous player--he sat upon his throne, reclined upon his lounge or smoked in his bath, organized and moved the most difficult and dangerous forces in the world--_an army of Spies!_

All ages, from that of infancy to decrepitude--all conditions of life, from peer to parvenu--from plough to the anvil--pulpit to the bar--orators and beggars, soldiers and sailors, male and female of every grade--men of the most insinuating address, and women of the most seductive ages and loveliness, grace and beauty were enlisted and trained to serve--in what the pot-bellied, bald-headed little monster of war used to call his _Cytherian Cohort!_ Snares set by these imperial policemen were difficult to avoid, from the almost utter impossibility of suspicioning their presence or power.

In 1808, a learned Italian, n.o.ble by birth, in consequence of the movements and _executions_ of Napoleon, found it prudent to shave off his moustache and t.i.tles, and change the scene of his future life, as well as change his name. A master of languages and a man of mind, he sought the learned precincts of Leipsic, Germany, where he preserved his incognito, though he was not long in winning the grace, and other considerations due enlarged intellect, from those not lacking that invaluable commodity themselves. Herr Beethoven--the new t.i.tle of our Italian "mi lord"--conceived the project of convincing the mighty Emperor--the hero of the sword--that so little a javelin as the pen could puncture the _sac_ containing all _his_ great pretensions, and let the vapor out; in short, to show the conqueror, that the pen _was_ mightier than his magic sword. Beethoven purposed writing a pamphlet _memorial_, involving the bombastic pretensions, the gigantic extravagance and arrogant ambition of Bonaparte. The man of letters well knew the ground upon which he was to tread, the danger of ambushed foes, involving such a _brochure_, and the caution necessary with which he was to produce his work. But Beethoven felt the necessity of the production; he possessed the power to execute a great benefit to his fellow man, and he determined to wield it and take the chances. Though scarcely giving breath to his project--guarding each page of his writing as vigilantly as though they were each blessed with the enchantment of a _Koh-i-Noor_--a mysterious agency discovered the fact--Napoleon shook in his royal boots, and swore in good round French, when the following missive reached his royal eye:--

_Sire(!)_--A plot is brewing against your peace; the safety of your throne is menaced by a villainous scribe. My informant, who has read the ma.n.u.scripts, informs me that he has never seen any thing better or more imposing, and ingenious in argument and force, than the fellow's appeal to all the crowned heads and people of Europe.

It is calculated to carry an irresistible conviction of the wrongs they suffer from your imperial majesty to every breast. These ma.n.u.scripts are fraught with more danger to your Imperial Majesty's Empire, than all the hostile bayonets in the world combined against you, Sire.

Leipsic, 1808. Baron De----.

Here was a hot shot dangling over the magazines of the mighty man, and the "little corporal" jumped into his boots, and began to set the wheels of his great "expediency" in motion. A message flew here, and another there; a dispatch to this one, and a royal order to that one. A dozen secretaries, and a score of _amanuensises_ were instantly at work, and the alarmed "Emperor of all the French" fairly beat the _reveille_ upon his diamond-cased snuff box; while, with the rapidity of the clapper of an alarm bell, he issued to each the oral order to which they were to lend enchantment by their rapid quills.

Herr Beethoven was surprised in his very closet! Papers were found scattered all over his little sanctum--the spies had him and his effects, most promptly; but what was the rage and disappointment of the emissaries of the wily monarch, to find neither hair nor hide of the dreaded _fiat!_ Had it gone forth? Was it secreted? Was it written?

They had the _man_, but his flesh and blood were as valueless as a pebble to a diamond, contrasted with the witchery of the _words_ he had invested a few sheets of simple paper with! They searched his clothes--tore up his bed, broke up his furniture, powdered his few pieces of statuary, but all in vain--the sought for, dreaded, and hated doc.u.ments, for which his _Imperial highness_ would have secretly given ten--twenty--fifty thousand _louis_--was not to be found! The rage of the inquisitors was terrific--showing how well they were chosen or paid, to serve in their atrocious capacities. The poor scribe was promised all manner of unpleasant _finales_, cursed, menaced, and finally coaxed.

"I have written nothing--published nothing, nor do I intend to write or publish anything," was Beethoven's reply.

"Speak fearlessly," said the chief of the inquisitors, "and rely upon a generous monarch's benevolence. My commission, sir, is limited to ascertain whether poverty has not compelled you to write; if that be the case, speak out; place any price upon your work--the price is nothing--I will pay you at once and destroy your doc.u.ments."

"Your offers, sir," responded the poor author, "are most kind and liberal, and I regret extremely that it is _not_ in my power to avail myself of them. I again declare, sir, that I have never written anything against the French government--your information to the contrary is false and wicked."

The spies, finding they could not gain any information of the author, by threat or bribe, carried him to France, where his doom was supposed to be sealed in torture and death, in the _Bastile_ of the Emperor.