 | THE USEFUL MAN. The soldier's bride and other tales |  |
THE USEFUL MAN.
Jemmy Gossamer was the only son of a reputable
tradesman, who grew rich by his skill and industry
in his business, and who might, with propriety, be
said to have been a man of most excellent habits, for
he was an eminent tailor. Perhaps I should have
said a men's mercer, for it is a curious trait of human
nature, that even those who are not too proud to
labour, are often too vain to be called by their right
names. In our republican country, and in an age
when the operative classes are really achieving the
proudest triumphs which adorn the page of history,
it is singular to see the ambitious artifices, by which
common occupations are attempted to be concealed
under dignified names. Formerly, a shoemaker
was content to be called cobbler, but now he is
elevated into a cordwainer; a tinker is a tin-plate
worker; and one half the blacksmiths in the country
costs nothing, and does nobody any harm. But old
Gossamer was one of those who cared very little
what people called him, provided they called often,
and were punctual in the payment of their bills.
He sat on his shop-board from morning till night,
and worked like a man—or, more properly speaking,
like the ninth part of a man,—from the expiration
of his apprenticeship, to the age of sixty-five.
He grew rich apace; and with wealth came a train
of honours. He was made a bank director, a
member of the city councils, and president of a fire
company; but so far from being seduced by these
distinguished marks of public favour, he continued
to flourish his scissors to the last, with unwearied
assiduity, and with a humility which the brightest
smiles of fortune never for a moment subdued. He
seemed to have taken the measure of his own mind,
and to have cut his coat according to his cloth.
It is a curious law of nature, or of society, that a
father who reaps an abundant harvest of this world's
prosperity, by means of his own honest exertions,
is most usually very careful to prevent his son from
following his example. It is not uncommon to see
men spending long lives of usefulness and virtue,
to no other end than that of rearing their offspring
in the opposite vices. In the management of his
business, Mr. Gossamer never showed any want of
prudence or judgment; but was always as sharp as
a needle. The training of his son was another
that his hopeful heir was cut out for a tailor; and as
the youth showed no genius for any other calling, he
wisely determined to breed him up a gentleman.
There is no character more eagerly coveted in our
simple republican land, than that of a gentleman.
An honest farmer, or a mechanic, will work harder
than a slave all his life, and deny himself a thousand
enjoyments, in order to have the gratification of
seeing his only son a gentleman. And what is a
gentleman? In this country, if he is not less, he is
certainly not more, than another. Gentility does
not endow any man with a new faculty, or an
exclusive privilege. A gentleman has all the wants,
frailties, appetites, vices, and passions of other men,
suffers under the same diseases, endures the same
misfortunes, and dies the same death. He has but
one life, but one vote; and cannot lawfully have but
one wife. He must eat and sleep, wear clothes, cut
off his beard, and take physic, as well as a clod-hopper.
In other countries a gentleman is supposed to
inherit, and transmit, a purer blood than that which
flows in the veins of his fellow creatures; and he
enjoys some privileges which amount to substantial
advantages. But, alas! where is the man in our
land—yea, even the proudest and most aristocratic,
who can look back upon his ancestry, without stumbling
upon a dingy blacksmith, a tricky pedlar,
or a fœtid apothecary; or can look forward to the
career of his offspring, without, in his brightest
to the most plebeian occupations? To be a gentleman,
then, in the sense that we now use the word,
amounts to nothing more than to be idle, and the
title is a convenient one, to distinguish those who
have no occupation, from the useful classes of society.
It was so that Mr. Gossamer understood it.
Having laboured hard all his life, he imagined that
it would be a great privilege to live without work;
and as his son would have an ample fortune, he
determined that he should spend it as he pleased.
Jemmy was accordingly the best dressed youth
in the town. He soon became a leader of the fashions;
for whenever the old gentleman wished to
introduce a coat of a new cut, or to astonish the
sober natives with a flashy vest, he displayed the
first pattern upon the neatly turned person of his
favourite son, who was thus made to answer the
purpose of a walking advertisement. By this sagacious
process, two birds were killed with one stone;
the skill of the father was made manifest to the
public, while the son became the envy of all his
companions.
Mr. Gossamer was not unmindful of the advantages
of education, and was determined to procure
for the hopeful youth who was to inherit his fortune,
all the learning that money could buy. But that
sprightly young gentleman soon discovered that
schools and colleges were no places for him. Among
modern innovations, that of writing the word “usefulness”
is one of the most conspicuous. Our hero soon
discovered that learning was not considered as a
polite accomplishment, but as an acquisition which
was to qualify a man for the business of life. He was
continually reminded of the practical value of
different branches of knowledge, and of their connection
with the occupations of men. The truth
of course flashed upon his mind, with all the force
of a syllogism—or, as his worthy progenitor would
have expressed it, it was just as plain as the button
on a man's coat—that learning was not necessary
for a gentleman. The words “practical,” “business,”
“usefulness,” and the like, were associated
in his mind with yard-sticks, paper measures, lumps
of wax, dirty fingers, and other concomitants of the
shop; and as he had wisely kept aloof from the
latter, he was not aware of having any interest in
the former. It followed that useful knowledge
would be superfluous to him, who was not intended
for an useful man, but a gentleman. The schools
were abandoned, or only attended occasionally as
a matter of form; his chief occupations were dressing,
lounging in Chesnut street, playing billiards,
and going to the theatre; and his studies were confined
to newspapers, play-bills, Byron's poems, and
Miss Fanny Wright's philosophy. Thus he grew
in years and in gentility, and at the age of twenty-one,
was thoroughly convinced that the highest dignity
of man consisted in being fashionably clad, and
About this time, the elder Mr. Gossamer, having
snapped the thread of life, was gathered to his
fathers, leaving his remnants to our hero.
The propitious hour was now arrived, when our
hero was to reap the harvest he had so long anticipated,
and for which his father had toiled through
half a century. He was now lord of himself, and
master of an ample fortune, and he expected forthwith
to take his station among the A—'s and the
B—s, and the C—s who were considered as
tip-top people. But the A—s, the B—s, and
the C—s had never heard of him, and to Jemmy's
perfect astonishment, his father's death neither
increased his dignity, nor enlarged the circle of his
acquaintance. He tried to force his way into that
society in which he longed to move, but was
repulsed with the gentle hint, that he was not consiered
as a gentleman! Highly indignant at what he
considered an unmerited aspersion upon his birth
and breeding, he resolved upon the usual expedient
in such cases—that of purchasing, by dint of wealth,
admission into those circles from which he was
excluded by his manners and education. He determined
to marry, and set up a fine establishment.
But, alas! what varied disappointments lie in wait
for the aspirants after worldly honours! One lady
refused him because he was a fop, another because
he was illiterate and vulgar, a third sneeringly
offered him the ninth part of her heart, and all
exclaimed Jemmy, “that's a good one!
I wonder what I am, if I'm not a gentleman? I'm
not a practical man, nor a mechanic, nor an operative,
nor one of those useful men that they make
such a fuss about. I am not a philosopher, nor a
scholar; no, nor a doctor, nor a lawyer—of course,
I must be a gentleman. I have plenty of money,
and nothing to do; and I take it I dress as well as
any body. I must be something, and I dont know
what I can be, unless I am a gentleman!” He
applied to a friend for advice as to the best method
of asserting his gentility.
“Write a book,” said his friend, “authorship has
got to be a very genteel calling.”
“I can't go that—my genius doesn't lie that way.”
“My dear fellow, that is all a mistake; it requires
no genius to make a book, as books are now made.
It only requires industry, a steady hand, and a sharp
pair of scissors.”
“That may be very true,” replied our hero,
“but industry is not a gentlemanly virtue; and as
for a pair of scissors, I am surprised that you would
mention so vulgar an instrument; I abominate the
very name.”
“Oh! I beg pardon; well, there is another plan;
suppose you fight a duel.”
“Don't mention it, my dear fellow. I have not
nerves for that. Besides, I might be killed, and
`unhandsome corpse.' No, I can't go that.”
“You must travel, then.”
“Travel! eh! where?”
“Any where you please; to the West, for instance.”
“West; what, out Chesnut street? over Schuylkill?”
“Aye, over Schuylkill and Susquehanna, over the
Ohio and Mississippi.”
“Well, I like that! agreed! will you go? Come,
let's be off; I want to be back by Monday, to Cooper's
benefit.”
His friend walked off, laughing; but our hero
was not to be balked in his newly awakened ambition,
and having made up his mind to travel West,
and learnt that he could not possibly “be back by
Monday,” he very considerately determined to
wait until after that day. Having made all the necessary
enquiries and preparations, he resolutely
took his seat in the stage, and commenced his
journey.
Had it been a dozen years ago, he would have
found few turnpikes, and those wretchedly bad; for
nobody had yet found out that it was unlawful to
make them. Every rock in the Alleghany ridge
might have been broken to atoms, and every prominent
feature in the face of the country amputated,
without the slightest injury to the Constitution.
Indeed, most people would have thought it a wholesome
not made, nor, until very recently, did any body
seem to care about them. The politicians, after
all, are the men to do business; they are the “great
magicians” who set every thing going. No sooner
did they take the matter up, than not only all the
land, and the rivers, but even public sentiment,
began to be McAdamised; and while one side
denounced turnpikes as the roads to national ruin,
and another extolled the making of them as the
greatest of virtues, the people proceeded vehemently
to that proof of the pudding, which the good old
maxim pronounces the best. Notwithstanding all
this, our hero soon discovered, that, even in these
days of improvement, a journey from the Atlantic
to the western country, is an adventure of no small
magnitude. As there is ever something in the way,
to retard our most innocent undertakings, so here
are piles of hideous mountains, heaped up one upon
another, until the highest not only intercepts the
poor earthly traveller, but forces even the clouds,
as they roll through the air, to turn aside, or to
crawl heavily up the mountain to its summit. There
is something sublime, and even consoling, in this
idea; and as the traveller winds his toilsome way
up the mountain path, it is quite comfortable to
reflect that thunder-gusts, as well as stage-coaches,
must submit to be impeded by these tremendous
barriers. As for Jemmy Gossamer, he thought
nothing about it, but drew his travelling cap over
proceeded with less rapidity. One fact, however,
in natural philosophy, he learned among the cliffs
of the Alleghany ridge, as it was too obvious to
escape even the notice of a gentleman, namely,
that the world is not round like an apple, as he had
been taught to believe, but as angular as a brickbat.
From Pittsburgh our traveller proceeded very
comfortably, in a fine steamboat, to St. Louis,
meeting with no adventures worthy of particular
notice. He had previously sent to this place, by
way of New Orleans, a very elegant dearborn carriage,
which he properly imagined would carry his
trunks, wardrobe, &c. and enable him at all times
to appear like a gentleman. To this he now prefixed
a fine horse, by means of a dashing set of plated
harness, and thus equipped, he set forth one fine
summer morning upon his travels in Illinois. He
preferred this State, because he was told that the
prairies were level, and destitute of trees. “I like
that,” said he—“bad things, these trees—don't have
them in Chesnut street—city council had them all
cut down on account of the catterpillars—wonder
congress don't have the whole concern exterminated.”
Our traveller was now driving over beautiful
plains, in a thinly settled country, where his fine
dearborn and dandy coat begat no small degree of
wonderment among the natives. To the latter he
had resolved to be very civil and condescending,
Clay, and other great men, were remarkable for
their affable courtesy to the common people. As
he rode leisurely along, he met a countryman, with
a rïfle on his shoulder, who hailed him with, “How
are you, stranger?” at the same time stopping short,
as if to invite a tete-a-tete.
“I hope I see you well, sir,” returned Jemmy,
reining up his horse, smiling his prettiest smile, and
bowing his best bow.
“Travelling, stranger?” was the next question.
“Yes, sir, rusticating a little, as you may perceive.”
“Which way are you going? if it's a fair question.”
“Very fair—I'm bound north.”
“Going to settle?”
“Can't say that I am. Just taking a tour of pleasure
to recreate the body, and expand the mental
faculties.”
“What parts did you come from?”
“From Philadelphia.”
“How do you like that country?”
“Philadelphia is not a country, my good friend, it
is a city.”
“Oh! it is a city! Is it a good place to live?”
“Better than this, a plaguy sight.”
“Well, you don't say so! are the land thar, as
good as this here?”
“Can't tell you—never saw any land in my life
till I left home.”
“Did you live in the water, if I mought be so
bold as to ax?”
“No, I lived in town.”
“Oh! you lived in town! likely, likely. What
do you follow for a living?”
“Sir, I follow my own inclinations—I'm a gentleman.”
“What might your name be?”
By this time Jemmy was growing impatient. He
gave his whip a flourish, and replied with a sneer,
“Why, it might be Julius Cæsar.
“Scissor!” exclaimed the hunter, slowly shouldering
his rifle and turning away, “mighty poor scissors,
too!” Jemmy cracked his whip, and dashed off
in a passion, while the backwoodsman, looking
drolly after him, muttered to himself, “Well if you
aint the poorest chance, for a live man, that ever I
saw, I'll agree to shoot nothing but a shot gun as
long as I live!”
Mr. Jemmy Gossamer had not proceeded very
far, when a jolly farmer, mounted on a sleek nag,
overtook him, and very pleasantly saluted him.
Jemmy bowed stiffly.
“Peddling, sir?” enquired the farmer.
“Do I look like a pedler?” exclaimed our hero,
in high dudgeon.
“I meant no offence, stranger; I thought, from
to sell.”
“I would thank you, sir, to tell me what part of
my equipage resembles that of a pedler.”
“Well, stranger, I'd no notion of making you mad,
for a pedler's just as good as another man; but that
little carry-all that you ride in, favours the Yankee
wagons they drive, mightily. And then you tote
such a powerful heap of plunder, that I thought you
must have goods to sell.”
Our traveller drove along in no enviable state of
feelings, vexed at having his fine carriage denominated
a carry-all, mortally offended at hearing it compared
with a pedler's vehicle, and dreadful indignant
that he himself should be mistaken for a travelling
merchant. “Was it for this,” thought he, “that I
came all the way to Illinois? Shall I never be duly
appreciated? Has the whole world conspired to
deny me the homage due to my great wealth? Will
nobody recognise me as a gentleman?” Engaged
in such reflections, he jogged along for an hour or
two, when a young countryman, who was trudging
along, with a bundle at his back, very civilly asked
him to be kind enough to tell him the time of day.
Soothed by the respectful manner of this address,
he stopped, and drew forth his elegant gold repeater
—“just twelve.”
“Well, that are an elegant watch, I'll be consarned
if it aint! Would you trade her, stranger?”
“I don't trade in watches, my friend.”
“Oh you don't! Have you any powder?”
“What sort of powder do you mean?”
“Well I'm not partic'lar what sort; either glazed
or rough will suit me, so it will shoot quick.”
“I don't carry gunpowder in my carriage.”
“That's a pity; you could trade a right smart of
it in these parts. Have you tobacco?”
“How do you dare to ask me such a question?”
roared our dandy, in violent indignation.
The young man looked at him in astonishment,
and calmly replied, “I'm as white a man as you
are. I'll ask what questions I please; if you don't
like it, you can go ahead with your little go-cart.”
Mr. Gossamer gave his horse a violent cut with
his long lash, and dashed off at a gallop, determined
to answer no more questions. But he was obliged
to stop at a cabin, to get a drink of water, and had
no sooner entered, than the good woman of the
house informed him that her “youngest datur was
powerful bad with the misery in her tooth,” and
enquired if “he had any camfire.”
“I am no physician, my good woman.”
“I did'nt reckon you was; you look too young
for a doctor. Do you carry the mail, young man?”
From this eventful day forward, he gave up all
hope of ever being received as a gentleman. He
turned his horse's head eastward, and never stopped
until he reached home,
“It won't all do,” said he to his friend, “I have
been taken for a pedler, for a travelling doctor, and
in the wilds of the West, any more than in the circles
of Philadelphia. There is some secret in it
that I have not learned. One thing is certain, that
money will not make a gentleman.”
“What do you propose to do?”
“Oh, I cut the whole concern. I shall open the
old man's shop to-morrow, take in a partner who
can handle the shears, and become an operative.”
“What! not a tailor!”
“Yes I will—I will so—I'll be hanged if I don't!
I cannot be a gentleman—I must be something—I'll
be A USEFUL MAN.”
| THE USEFUL MAN. The soldier's bride and other tales | |