University of Virginia Library

13. PETER BRUSH,
THE GREAT USED UP.

It was November; soon after election time, when a
considerable portion of the political world are apt to be
despondent, and external things appear to do their utmost
to keep them so. November, the season of dejection,
when pride itself loses its imperious port; when ambition
gives place to melancholy; when beauty hardly
takes the trouble to look in the glass; and when existence
doffs its rainbow hues, and wears an aspect of such
dull, commonplace reality, that hope leaves the world
for a temporary excursion, and those who cannot do
without her inspiring presence, borrow the aid of pistols,
cords, and chemicals, and send themselves on a longer
journey, expecting to find her by the way:—a season,
when the hair will not stay in curl; when the walls weep
dewy drops, to the great detriment of paper-hangings,
and of every species of colouring with which they are
adorned; when the banisters distil liquids, any thing
but beneficial to white gloves; when nature fills the
ponds, and when window-washing is the only species of
amusement at all popular among housekeepers.

It was on the worst of nights in that worst of seasons.
The atmosphere was in a condition of which it is difficult
to speak with respect, much as we may be disposed to
applaud the doings of nature. It was damp, foggy, and

drizzling; to sum up its imperfections in a sonorous and
descriptive epithet, it was “'orrid muggy weather.” The
air hung about the wayfarer in warm, unhealthy folds,
and extracted the starch from his shirt collar and from
the bosom of his dickey, with as much rapidity as it robbed
his spirits of their elasticity, and melted the sugar of
self-complacency from his mind. The street lamps
emitted a ghastly white glare, and were so hemmed in
with vapory wreaths, that their best efforts could not
project a ray of light three feet from the burner. Gloom
was universal, and any change, even to the heat of Africa,
or to the frosts of the arctic circle, would, in comparison,
have been delightful. The pigs' tails no longer
waved in graceful sinuosities; while the tail of each
night-roving, hectoring bull-dog ceased flaunting toward
the clouds, a banner of wrath and defiance to punier creatures,
and hung down drooping and dejected, an emblem
of a heart little disposed to quarrel and offence. The
ornamentals of the brute creation being thus below par,
it was not surprising that men, with cares on their shoulders
and raggedness in their trousers, should likewise
be more melancholy than on occasions of a brighter
character. Every one at all subject to the “skiey influences,”
who has had trouble enough to tear his clothes,
and to teach him that the staple of this mundane existence
is not exclusively made up of fun, has felt that philosophy
is but a barometrical affair, and that he who is
proof against sorrow when the air is clear and bracing,
may be a very miserable wretch, with no greater cause,
when the wind sits in another quarter.

Peter Brush is a man of this susceptible class. His
nervous system is of the most delicate organization, and
responds to the changes of the weather, as an Eolian
harp sings to the fitful swellings of the breeze. Peter

was abroad on the night of which we speak; either
because, unlike the younger Brutus, he had no Portia
near to tell him that such exposure was “not physical,”
and that it was the part of prudence to go to bed, or that,
although aware of the dangers of miasma to a man of his
constitution, he did not happen at that precise moment
to have access to either house or bed; in his opinion,
two essential pre-requisites to couching himself, as he
regarded taking it al fresco, on a cellar door, not likely
to answer any sanitary purpose. We incline ourselves
to the opinion that he was in the dilemma last mentioned,
as it had previously been the fate of other great men.
But be that as it may, Mr. Peter Brush was in the street,
as melancholy as an unbraced drum, “a gib-ed cat, or
a lugged bear.”

Seated upon the curb, with his feet across the gutter,
he placed his elbow on a stepping-stone, and like Juliet
on the balcony, leaned his head upon his hand—a hand
that would perhaps have been the better of a covering,
though none would have been rash enough to volunteer
to be a glove upon it. He was in a dilapidated condition—
out at elbows, out at knees, out of pocket, out of office,
out of spirits, and out in the street—an “out and outer”
in every respect, and as outré a mortal as ever the eye of
man did rest upon. For some time, Mr. Brush's reflections
had been silent. Following Hamlet's advice, he
“gave them an understanding, but no tongue;” and he
relieved himself at intervals by spitting forlornly into
the kennel. At length, suffering his locked hands to
fall between his knees, and heaving a deep sigh, he
spoke:—

“A long time ago, my ma used to put on her specs
and say, `Peter, my son, put not your trust in princes;'
and from that day to this I haven't done any thing of the

kind, because none on 'em ever wanted to borry nothing
of me; and I never see a prince or a king,—but one or
two, and they had been rotated out of office,—to borry
nothing of them. Princes! pooh!—Put not your trust
in politicianers—them's my sentiments. You might jist
as well try to hold an eel by the tail. I don't care which
side they're on, for I've tried both, and I know. Put
not your trust in politicianers, or you'll get a hyst.

“Ten years ago it came into my head that things
weren't going on right; so I pretty nearly gave myself
up tee-totally to the good of the republic, and left the
shop to look out for itself. I was brimfull of patriotism,
and so uneasy in my mind for the salivation of freedom,
I couldn't work. I tried to guess which side was going
to win, and I stuck to it like wax;—sometimes I was
a-one side, sometimes I was a-t'other, and sometimes I
straddled till the election was over, and came up jist in
time to jine the hurrah. It was good I was after; and
what good could I do if I wasn't on the 'lected side?
But, after all, it was never a bit of use. Whenever the
battle was over, no matter what side was sharing out the
loaves and the fishes, and I stepped up, I'll be hanged if
they didn't cram all they could into their own mouths,
put their arms over some, and grab at all the rest with
their paws, and say, `Go away, white man, you ain't
capable.'—Capable! what's the reason I ain't capable?
I've got as extensive a throat as any of 'em, and I could
swallow the loaves and fishes without choking, if each
loaf was as big as a grindstone and each fish as
big as a sturgeon. Give Peter a chance, and leave him
alone for that. Then, another time when I called—`I
want some spoils,' says I; `a small bucket full of spoils.
Whichever side gets in, shares the spoils, don't they?'
So they first grinned, and then they ups and tells me that

virtue like mine was its own reward, and that spoils
might spoil me. But it was no spoils that spoilt me,
and no loaf and fish that starved me—I'm spoilt because
I couldn't get either. Put not your trust in politicianers
—I say it agin. Both sides used me jist alike. Here
I've been serving my country, more or less, these ten
years, like a patriot—going to town meetings, hurraing
my daylights out, and getting as blue as blazes—blocking
the windows, getting licked fifty times, and having more
black eyes and bloody noses than you could shake a
stick at, all for the common good, and for the purity of
our illegal rights—and all for what? Why, for nix. If
any good has come of it, the country has put it into her
own pocket, and swindled me out of my arnings. I can't
get no office! Republics is ungrateful! It wasn't reward
I was after. I scorns the base insinivation. I only
wanted to be took care of, and have nothing to do but to
take care of the public, and I've only got half—nothing
to do! Being took care of was the main thing. Republics
is ungrateful; I'm swaggered if they ain't. This is
the way old sojers is served.”

Peter, having thus unpacked his o'erfraught heart,
heaved a sigh or two, as every one does after a recapitulation
of their own injuries, and remained for a few
minutes wrapped in abstraction.

“Well, well,” said he, mournfully, swaying his head
to and fro after the sagacious fashion of Lord Burleigh—
“live and learn—live and learn—the world's not what a
man takes it for before he finds it out. Whiskers grow
a good deal sooner than experience—genus and patriotism
ain't got no chance—heigh-ho!—But anyhow, a
man might as well be under kiver as out in the open air
in sich weather as this. It's as cheap laying down as it is
settin' up, and there's not so much wear and tear about it.”

With a groan, a yawn, and a sigh, Peter Brush slowly
arose, and stretching himself like a drowsy lion, he
walked toward the steps of a neighbouring house. Having
reached the top of the flight, he turned about and looked
round with a scrutinizing glance, peering both up and
down the street, to ascertain that none of the hereditary
enemies of the Brushes were in the vicinity. Being
satisfied on that score, he prepared to enjoy all the comfort
that his peculiar situation could command. According
to the modern system of warfare, he carried no baggage
to encumber his motions, and was always ready to
bivouac without troublesome preliminaries. He therefore
placed himself on the upper step, so that he was
just within the doorway, his head reclining against one
side of it, and his feet braced against the other, blockading
the passage in a very effectual manner. He adjusted
himself in position as carefully as the Sybarite who was
annoyed at the wrinkle of a rose-leaf on his couch, grunting
at each motion like a Daniel Lambert at his toilet,
and he made minute alterations in his attitude several
times before he appeared perfectly satisfied that he had
effected the best arrangements that could be devised.
After reposing for a while as if “the flinty and steel
couch of war were his thrice-driven bed of down,” he
moved his head with an exclamation of impatience at the
hardness of the wall, and taking his time-worn beaver,
he crumpled it up, and mollified the austerity of his bolster
by using the crushed hat as a pillow.

“That will do,” ejaculated Brush, clasping his hands
before him, and twirling his thumbs; and he then closed
his eyes for the purpose of reflecting upon his condition
with a more perfect concentration of thought than can be
obtained when outward objects distract the mind. But
thinking in this way is always a hazardous experiment,

whether it be after dinner, or in the evening; and Peter
Brush soon unwittingly fell into a troubled, murmuring
sleep, in which his words were mere repetitions of what
he had said before, the general scope of the argument
being to prove the received axiom of former times, that
republics do not distribute their favours in proportion to
services rendered, and that, in the speaker's opinion, they
are not, in this respect, much better than the princes against
whom his mother cautioned him. Such, at least, was
the conviction of Mr. Brush; at which he had arrived,
not by theory and distant observation, but by his own
personal experience.

It is a long lane which has no turning, and it is a long
sleep in the open air, especially in a city, which does not
meet with interruption. Brush found it so in this instance,
as he had indeed more than once before. Several
gentlemen, followed by a dog, arrived at the foot of the
steps, and, after a short conversation, dispersed each to
his several home. One, however, remained—the owner
of the dog—who, whistling for his canine favourite, took
out his night-key, and walked up the steps. The dog,
bounding before his master, suddenly stopped, and after
attentively regarding the recumbent Brush, uttered a
sharp rapid bark.

The rapidity of mental operations is such that it frequently
happens, if sleep be disturbed by external sounds,
that the noise is instantly caught up by the ear, and incorporated
with the subject of the dream—or perhaps a
dream is instantaneously formed upon the nucleus suggested
by the vibration of the tympanum. The bark of
the dog had one of these effects upon Mr. Brush.

“Bow! wow! waugh!” said the dog.

“There's a fellow making a speech against our side,”
muttered Peter; “but it's all talk—where's your facts?—

print your speech in pamphlet form, and I'll answer it.
Hurray for us!—everybody else is rascals—nothing but
ruination when that fellow's principles get the upper
hand—our side for ever—we're the boys!”

“Be still, Ponto!” said the gentleman. “Now, sir,
be pleased to get up, and carry yourself to some other
place. I don't know which side has the honour of claiming
you, but you are certainly on the wrong side at
present.”

“Don't be official and trouble yourself about other
people's business,” said Brush, trying to open his eyes;
“don't be official, for it isn't the genteel thing.”

“Not official! what do you mean by that? I shall be
very official, and trundle you down the steps if you are
not a little more rapid in your motions.”

“Oh, very well,” responded Brush, as he wheeled
round in a sitting posture, and fronted the stranger—
“very well—be as sassy as you please—I suppose you've
got an office, by the way you talk—you've got one of
the fishes, though perhaps it is but a minny, and I ain't—
but if I had, I'd show you a thing or two. Be sassy, be
any thing, Mr. Noodle-soup. I don't know which side
you're on either, but I do know one thing—it isn't saying
much for your boss politicianer that he chose you when
I must have been on his list for promotion—that's all,
though you are so stiff, and think yourself pretty to look
at. But them that's pretty to look at ain't always good
'uns to go, or you wouldn't be poking here. Be off—
there's no more business before this meeting, and you
may adjourn. It's moved, seconded, and carried—pay the
landlord for the use of the room as you go.”

The stranger, now becoming somewhat amused, felt a
disposition to entertain himself a little with Peter.

“How does it happen,” said he, “that such a public

spirited individual as you appear to be should find himself
in this condition? You've had a little too much of
the stimulantibus, I fear.”

“I don't know Greek, but I guess what you mean,”
was the answer. “It's owing to the weather—part to
the weather, and part because republics is ungrateful;
that's considerable the biggest part. Either part is excuse
enough, and both together makes it a credit. When it's
such weather as this, it takes the electerizing fluid out
of you; and if you want to feel something like—do you
know what `something like' is?—it's cat-bird, jam up—
if you want to feel so, you must pour a little of the electerizing
fluid into you. In this kind of weather you must
tune yourself up, and get rosumed, or you ain't good for
much—tuned up to concert pitch. But all that's a trifle—
put not your trust in politicianers.”

“And why not, Mr. Rosum?”

“Why not! Help us up—there—steady she goes—
hold on! Why not?—look at me, and you'll see the why
as large as life. I'm the why you musn't put your trust
in politicianers. I'm a rig'lar patriot—look at my coat—
I'm all for the public good—twig the holes in my trousers.
I'm steady in my course, and I'm upright in my
conduct—don't let me fall down—I've tried all parties,
year in and year out, just by way of making myself
popular and agreeable; and I've tried to be on both sides
at once,” roared Brush, with great emphasis, as he slipped
and fell—“and this is the end of it!”

His auditor laughed heartily at this striking illustration
of the results of the political course of Peter Brush, and
seemed quite gratified with so strong a proof of the danger
of endeavouring to be on two sides at once. He
therefore assisted the fallen to rise.

“Are you hurt?”

“No—I'm used to being knocked about—the steps
and the pavement are no worse than other people—
they're like politicianers—you can't put any trust in 'em.
But,” continued Brush, drawing a roll of crumpled
paper from the crown of his still more crumpled hat—
“see here now—you're a clever fellow, and I'll get you
to sign my recommendation. Here's a splendid character
for me all ready wrote down, so it won't give you
any trouble, only to put your name to it.”

“But what office does it recommend you for—what
kind of recommendation is it?”

“It's a circular recommend—a slap at any thing that's
going.”

“Firing into the flock, I suppose?”

“That's it exactly—good character—fit for any fat
post either under the city government, the state government,
or the gineral government. Now jist put your
fist to it,” added Peter, in his most persuasive tones, as
he smoothed the paper over his knee, spread it upon the
step, and produced a bit of lead pencil, which he first
moistened with his lips, and then offered to his interlocutor.

“Excuse me,” was the laughing response; “it's too
dark—I can't see either to read or to write. But what
made you a politicianer? Haven't you got a trade?”

“Trade! yes,” replied Brush, contemptuously; “but
what's a trade, when a feller's got a soul? I love my
country, and I want an office—I don't care what, so it's
fat and easy. I've a genus for governing—for telling people
what to do, and looking at 'em do it. I want to take
care of my country, and I want my country to take care
of me. Head work is the trade I'm made for—talking—
that's my line—talking in the streets, talking in the barrooms,
talking in the oyster cellars. Talking is the

grease for the wagon wheels of the body politic and the
body corpulent, and nothing will go on well till I've got
my say in the matter; for I can talk all day, and most
of the night, only stopping to wet my whistle. But
parties is all alike—all ungrateful; no respect for genus—
no respect for me. I've tried both sides, got nothing,
and I've a great mind to knock off and call it half a day.
I would, if my genus didn't make me talk, and think, and
sleep so much I can't find time to work.”

“Well,” said the stranger, “you must find time to go
away. You're too noisy. How would you like to go
before the mayor?”

“No, I'd rather not. Stop—now I think of it, I've
asked him before; but perhaps if you'd speak a good
word, he'd give me the first vacancy. Introduce me properly,
and say I want something to do shocking—no,
not something to do—I want something to get; my
genus won't let me work. I'd like to have a fat salary,
and to be general superintendent of things in general
and nothing in particular, so I could walk about the
streets, and see what is going on. Now, put my best
leg foremost—say how I can make speeches, and how I
can hurray at elections.”

“Away with you,” said the stranger, as he ran
up the steps, and opened the door. “Make no noise
in this neighbourhood, or you'll be taken care of soon
enough.”

“Well, now, if that isn't ungrateful,” soliloquized
Brush,—“keep me here talking, and then slap the door
right in my face. That's the way politicianers serve me,
and it's about all I'd a right to expect. Oh, pshaw!—
sich a world—sich a people!”

Peter rolled up his “circular recommend,” put it in
his hat, and slowly sauntered away. As he is not yet

provided for, he should receive the earliest attention of
parties, or disappointment may induce him to abandon
both, take the field “upon his own hook,” and constitute
an independent faction under the name of the “Brush
party,” the cardinal principle of which will be that peculiarly
novel impulse to action, hostility to all “politicianers”
who are not on the same side.