CHAPTER II. FIRST ACQUAINTANCE WITH HOBBLESHANK.
Disengaging himself from the crowd at Fogfire-Hall, the
young Politician followed his unknown conductor into the
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open air. From the rapidity with which he moved, in advance,
although his gait was shuffling and uncertain, he
was not fairly overtaken until he had reached the mouth of
a neighboring Refectory, at which, pausing only for an instant
glance at the young man's countenance—which seemed
to create a pleasurable feeling, and caused him to smile
strenuously—he plunged down the steps. The young Politician
followed, and found himself in a close narrow room,
the air of which was musty with confiement, and, having
no opportunity from the pent place where it was imprisoned,
to ramble about among meadows and fresh streams to enliven
itself, depended on fumes of brandy and clouds of cigarsmoke,
for whatever life it exhibited. A tall man stood before
the fire, who would have inevitably perished of its noxious
qualities if he had not taken occasion, through the day, to
stand up the steps with his head and shoulders above ground,
contemplating the clay-covered wagons that came in fresh
from the country.
Judging from the starved, narrow-breasted skeletons of
turkies and fowls, the cold, sepulchral hams, the cadaverous,
shrunken legs of mutton, and the dwarfed tarts and bread-rolls,
that lay in miserable heaps on the table, they might
have easily concluded that the pie-house into which they
had descended was the dreary family vault, to which melancholy
butchers, bakers and poulterers were in the habit of
consigning such of their professional progeny, as had ceased
to have life and merchantable qualities on earth. The room
was, of all possible dirty rooms, the dirtiest: with walls
smoked and tallow-stained; an unsanded floor; tables spotted
all over, like the double-six of dominoes; and a fire, with
just enough animation to blush at the other appointments of
the place. The pie-house had its pretensions, too: for it
possessed not only a common-room for outside customers,
but a private parlor, snug and select, cut off from its vulgar
neighbor by elegant blue curtains, made to resemble patches
of dirty blue sky—moving on a wire with jingling brass
rings, and entered by a half-raised step.
Upon this, which was little more than a large stall after
all, they entered. The mysterious little gentleman, drawing
the curtains behind them, rushed up to the fire and rubbed
his hands together over the blaze, opened the curtains,
thrust out his head, called for oysters and beer, and took
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his station at one side of the table in the middle of the
floor. “It's all right,” said the stranger. “Don't be alarmed.
My name is Hobbleshank—what's yours?”
“Puffer Hopkins,” replied the young Politician, surveying
more closely his whimsical companion.
He was an irregular-built little gentleman, about fiftyfive
years of age, with a pale face, twitched out of shape
somewhat by a paralytic affection: with one sound eye, and
one in a condition of semi-transparency, which gave to his
features something of a ghostly or goblin character; and
hedging in and heightening the effect of the whole, a pair of
bushy black whiskers, of a fine, vigorous growth. The little
gentleman wore a faded blue frock, short pantaloons, low
shoes, an eye-glass, and a hat considerably dilapidated and
impaired by age.
The singularity and whim of the little old gentleman's
demeanor was shown, in his shambling up side-ways toward
Puffer whenever he addressed him, and looking up timidly,
first with the doubtful eye, as if sounding his way, and then
with the sound one; fortifying himself, from time to time,
from an immense snuff-box, which he carried awkwardly in
his left hand.
“That was an excellent speech, young man!” said the
strange little gentleman, dropping into a seat and simultaneously
swallowing an oyster black with pepper.
“I trust the sentiments were correct,” modestly suggested
his companion.
“Never better, sir: sound as a Newton pippin, to the
core,” continued the strange little gentleman. “But you
are young yet, sir—quite young—and have a thing or two
to learn. Be good enough not to advance upon the stage
again, if you please, without your coat buttoned snug to
the chin, which shows that you mean to give them a resolute
speech—a devilish resolute speech,” exclaimed the
little gentleman, glaring on the youth with his spectre eye,
“full of storm and thunder, sir:—or else with your breasts
thrown wide back, indicating that you are about to regale
them with an airy, well-ventilated and very candid effusion.”
Appreciating the interest that the little old gentleman
expressed in his future success, his companion promised
to comply, as far as in him lay, with these new requisitions
in the art of addressing public bodies.
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“There was an awful omission,” continued the strange gentleman,
“a very awful and unpardonable omission, in your
harangue to-night.” The little old gentleman's voice sounded
sepulchral, and his companion cast his eyes anxiously about
the select parlor.
“For Heaven's sake, what was that, sir?” asked the young
gentleman, regarding his censor with intense interest.
“Why, sir,” said the little old gentleman, relaxing into a
grim smile, “where were your banners? You had'nt one in
your whole speech! An address to a political assembly in
New-York, and not a tatter of bunting in the whole of it—
you must excuse me, but it's the weakest thing I've ever
known. An army might as well go into battle as an
orator into our popular meetings, without his flags and
standards. Where were your stars, too? There was'nt
even the twinkle of a comet's tail in the whole harangue:
they expect it. Stars are the pepper and salt of a political
discourse—mind that if you please!”
At this passage, the little old gentleman became thoughtful,
and fell upon his oysters and beer with horrible avidity;
which process caused him to grow more thoughtful than ever.
“Many a good speech have I heard,” he at length said, contemplating
Puffer Hopkins with melancholy regard, “whose
deliverer now lies under the tombstone. Others lie there,
too!—I'd give my life, sir,” he exclaimed earnestly, pressing his
hands closely together, “my life with its resulting interest, if
I dared, for a minute's gaze at features that are lying in the
silence and darkness of dust. That's hard, sir—too hard to
bear: a young wife borne away in her bloom by a cold, cruel
hearse—black, all over black! And then what followed—
do you recollect what followed? I'm a fool—you know nothing
of it; why should you? Life is a green field to you,
without as much as a grave or a furrow in it all.”
“I am not too sure of that,” answered Puffer Hopkins, “for
I have a dim remembrance of a death that touched me nearly,
long ago; whose death I cannot say, but a vision, away off
in past times—of a darkened house—a solemn train issuing
forth, with one figure staggering into the funeral coach, drunk
with excess of grief—the heavy roll of wheels—and many
tears and lamentations in the small household.”
While he delivered this, Hobbleshank looked earnestly in
his face, as if he discovered in what he said a meaning deeper
than the words. At this there was a long silence, which Puffer
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Hopkins at length attempted to break, by stating to his companion
the character in which he had appeared that night,
for the first time, at Fogfire Hall.
“I know,” said Hobbleshank, pushing his open palm toward
Puffer Hopkins, “Do'nt say a word:—I know all about it.
You're a young professional trader in politics and patriotism;
a beginner—just opened to-night with your first speech,
and a fresh assortment of apostrophes and gesticulations. I
know you are new in the business, for when you spoke of
Heaven, and Eternal Justice, you looked at the audience!
Very green, my boy: an old spouter, in such a case, always
rolls his eye-balls back under their lids, and smells of the
chandelier, which is much better, although the odor is'nt
pleasant.”
“A mere 'prentice at the business I confess myself,” answered
Puffer.
“I wish you would bear in mind, too,” continued his whimsical
adviser, “when you address a mixed audience, and have
occasion to speak of the majesty of the people, that the established
rule is, not to stare at any individual dirty face in
the middle of the crowd, but to look away off, beyond the
crowd entirely; as if you discovered what you're speaking
about in some remote suburb with which they have nothing
to do. Do you understand me?”
“I think I do,” replied Puffer: “But is'nt there generally
some placid gentleman or other, who comes to the meeting
early, and plants himself in front of the platform at a proper
distance, with the praiseworthy purpose of having the speaker
lay out all his strength in gazing at him, and moving his
bowels and understanding? I used to think so—and have
tried it more than once: it feels very pleasant, I can assure
you.”
“What of that? It's your business to humble these gentry—
they're aristocracy in disguise, and borrow their cartmen's
hats to come to public meetings in. No, no:” cried Hobbleshank
with emphasis, “Do'nt you be caught in that trap.
Do you pick out the dirtiest waistcoat in the audience, with
the most cadaverous face in the room peering over it—pitch
your eye upon the second button from the top, just where the
proof of a lack of under-garments becomes overwhelming—
and fire away. Your target's a poor scamp—the beggarliest
in the house with an understanding like a granite
rock, (needing the whole force of an incorporated
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company of metaphysicians to quarry and dress it)—and a select
circle of acquaintance, among wharfingers, small boatmen
and bean-eaters, near the market. That's your man. Dash
your hair back from your brow, swing your arms, and do'nt
spare flowers, knuckles, tropes and desk-lids.”
By the time Hobbleshank had arrived at this division of
his subject, he had reached—working himself along by degrees—
the extremity of the stall, and was standing on his
toes, with his goggle eyes glaring over the partition at a melancholy
personage—the very counterpart of his description—
who sate on a stool by the fire, with his piece of hat drawn
over his eyes, with one leg on the ground, and the other
thrust under him on the seat.
“That's one of them,” whispered Hobbleshank, casting an
eye down at Puffer, and pointing with his finger over the
partition. “No, it is'nt, after all, for there's the top of a
book sticking out of his pocket. Our kidney don't know
books.”
Puffer Hopkins leaned out of the stall, and stretching himself
forward, contemplated the object to which Hobbleshank
directed him; but instantly drew back, and seizing his companion
by the skirts, pulled him, almost by main force, into
his seat.
“Don't, for Heaven's sake!” he said, as he bent forward
and placed his mouth at the ear of Hobbleshank, “That's
my poor neighbor, Fob, the tailor.”
These brief words were delivered in such a way as if
Puffer Hopkins expected their mere utterance would silence
his companion, and cause an entire revolution in the feelings
with which he had regarded the sorry creature before
the pie-house fire.
“A poor tailor!” he echoed, “well, is that all?”
“Yes: that's all!” answered Hopkins.
“Nothing more?” asked Hobbleshank.
“Nothing more,” replied Puffer Hopkins.
These questions were asked and answered, in tones that
brought the conversation between them to a dead pause; at
which it staid for a good many minutes: when Puffer Hopkins,
rousing a little, asked “If that was'nt enough?”
At this moment the poor gentleman at the fire waked,
heaved a great sigh, and taking an imperfect copy of a book
from his pocket, and lifting his hat from his eyes, fell to perusing
it with great earnestness; all of which interfered,
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very seriously, with any further conversation on his condition
and prospects in life—so that after contemplating him
steadily for several minutes, they thought proper to retreat to
the previous subject of their discourse.
“You should'nt have dropped from the platform so suddenly,”
said Hobbleshank.
“I was through my speech,” answered Puffer Hopkins,
“and wished to get out of sight at once.”
“Out of sight!” exclaimed his companion, as if unconscious
of Puffer's presence, “What a fool the boy is. Why,
sir, if you intend to be a politician—a thriving one I mean—
you must keep yourself in view, like St. Paul's steeple, that
frowns down on you, wherever you go through the city.
Out of sight, indeed! You should have made a bow to the
audience—wheeled about—seized the first adjacent hand on
the stage—shook it with the utmost violence, smiling in the
owner's face all the while, very pleasantly—and then planted
yourself on a chair fronting the audience—hooked your elbows
over the corner of the chair-top—smiling steadily on the populace,
and leaving off, only, every now and then, to nurse
your ruffle and pull down your wristbands.”
“I'll endeavor to practice this next time,” said Puffer,
meekly.
“Do,” said Hobbleshank, “And look to your costume, if
you please. What do you mean by wearing this brown coat,
and having your hair cut plain?”
“I don't know why I had my hair cut this way,” answered
Puffer, “but I wore the coat, because it was large in the
sleeves, and allowed a wide spread of the arms when I came
to the rainbow thus,” and he expanded his arms after the
manner of an arch, as he had, indeed, endeavored to do in
the delivery of his speech, but was prevented, at the time,
from the embarrassment of having to employ his handkerchief
in clearing the sweet which oozed out in liquid drops on his
forehead. “You recollect the simile?”
“Perfectly,” answered Hobbleshank: “And don't station
yourself next time, sir, on the lowest point of the platform—
but stand forth in the centre, making wings of the six vices
on either side of you, and compelling the anxious presiding
officer directly behind you to stretch his neck around the
skirt of your coat, and to look up in your face with painful
eagerness to catch what you're saying, which always makes
the audience, who have great confidence in the head of the
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meeting, very attentive. It's a grand stroke to make a tableau
on any stage worthy of the biggest type on the showbills
and here you have one of the very finest imaginable.”
“But as to the orator's position,” asked Puffer, “Do you
think a public speaker is ever justifiable in standing on his
toes?”
“In extreme cases, he may be,” answered Hobbleshank,
pondering, “But it's best to rise gradually with your hearers:
and, if you can have a private understanding with one of the
waiters, to fix a chair conveniently, a wooden-bottomed windsor,
mind, and none of your rushers—for it's decidedly funny
and destroys the effect, to hear a gentleman declaiming about
a sinking-fund, or a penal code, or the abolition of imprisonment
for debt, up to his belly in a broken chair-frame. As
the passion grows upon you, plant your right leg on one of
the rounds, then on the bottom, and finally, when you feel
yourself at red-heat, spring into the chair, waive your hat,
and call upon the audience to die for their country, their
families and their firesides—or any other convenient reason.”
As Hobbleshank advanced in his discourse, he had illustrated
its various topics by actual accompaniments: mounting
first on his legs, then the bench, and ended by leaping upon
the table, where he stood brandishing hisb roken hat, and
shouting vociferously for more oysters.
No reply to this uproarious summons appearing, Hobbleshank
thrust his head between the curtains, discovered that
the tailor had vanished, and that the tall man was sitting
against the chimney-piece with his legs stretched upon a
stool, and sound asleep. He snatched up his hat, and hurrying
toward the street, said he thought it was time to go.
As it had worn far into the heart of the night, Puffer
Hopkins could not gainsay the postulate, and followed on.
Hobbleshank keeping a little in advance, they rambled thus
through many streets; the little old gentleman sometimes
hurrying them forward at a gallop, and again subsiding into
a slow, careful step—as if he kept pace with the heavy
chimes that were sounding midnight from the town-clocks,
or perchance, with thoughts that beat at his heart with a
sharper stroke.
“Be constant, child,” said he, as he was preparing to leave his
companion, “in your visits to popular associations and gatherings:
many a man is platformed and scaffolded by these
committees and juntos, into the high places of the nation.”
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He then told Hopkins where he could leave word for him, in
case he should at any time require advice or assistance;
said that, if he chose, he might be at Barrell's oyster-house
the next evening, and he would wait upon him to one of these
assemblages; and before Puffer Hopkins could answer one
way or the other, he had disappeared from his side, and vanishing
into a bye-street, was soon lost in the darkness.
It cannot be matter of wonder that Puffer made his way
home with a head considerably bewildered and unsettled by
the occurrences of the night. The great popular gathering;
his own first speech; the thundering and tumultuous applause;
and, what fastened itself with peculiar force upon his
imagination, the voice and figure of the little old man, uttering
pensive truths or shrewd observations, with the kindly interest
he had expressed in himself from the first moment—
all crowded upon him, and made him feel that he was in an
actual world, where, if he would but bestir himself, fortune
might prove his friend. The result of the whole was,
that he determined to prosecute his career: and in furtherance
of that determination, he resolved to meet Hobbleshank
again; the last image that his mind distinctly recognized,
ere it yielded to sleep, being that of the little paralytic,
passing and repassing, at times dissolved in tears, and
again, filling his chamber with the echoes of smothered
laughter!
Mathews, Cornelius, 1817-1889 [1842], The career of Puffer Hopkins (D. Appleton & Co., New York) [word count] [eaf264].
