 | THE CROOKED DISCIPLE;
OR, THE PRIDE OF MUSCLE. Charcoal sketches, or, Scenes in a metropolis |  |
18. THE CROOKED DISCIPLE;
OR, THE PRIDE OF MUSCLE.
Nature too frequently forgets to infuse the sympathies
into the composition of the human race, and hence the
world is afflicted with a flood of evils. Imperfect as
mankind may be in a physical point of view, their moral
defects are immeasurably greater, and these chiefly flow
from the dearth of sympathy. Social offences, as well
as crimes, are in general born from this cause, and the
sins of humanity are to be charged upon selfishness, the
weed that chokes all wholesome plants in the garden of
the heart, and exhausts the soil. It manifests itself in a
variety of ways. In one instance, being combined with
other essentials, it makes a mighty conqueror; in another,
a petty larcenist; one man beats his wife and sots at an
alehouse; another sets the world in a blaze, and dying,
becomes the idol of posterity; all from the same cause—
a mind concentred on itself.
The forms which govern society were intended to
counteract the aforesaid neglect of dame nature, and to
keep selfishness in check; it having been early discovered
that if every one put his fingers in the dish at
once, a strong chance existed that the contents thereof
would be spilt, and all would be compelled to go home
hungry. It was equally clear that if each individual
the fire, the whole company would be likely to catch
cold. The canon was therefore issued that “after you”
should be “manners;” and that, however anxious one
may be to get the biggest piece, he should not obey the
promptings of nature by making a direct grab; but rather
effect his object by indirect management—such as placing
the desired morsel nearest himself, and then handing the
plate—a species of hocus pocus, which puts the rest of
the company in the vocative, and enables the skill of
civilization quietly to effect that which in earlier times
could only be accomplished by superior force, and at the
hazard of upsetting the table. If sympathy were the
growth of every mind, politeness and deference would be
spontaneous; but as it is not, a substitute—a sort of
wooden leg for the natural one—was invented, and hence
“dancing and manners” are a part of refined education.
Wine glasses are placed near the decanter, and tumblers
near the pitcher, that inclination may receive a broad hint,
and that the natural man may not rob the rest of the
company of their share of comfort, by catching up and
draining the vessels at a draught. Chairs stand near the
dinner table to intimate that, however hungry one may
be, it is not the thing to jump upon the board, and,
clutching the whole pig, to gnaw it as a school-boy does
an apple; while plates, with their attendant knives and
forks, show that each one must be content with a portion,
and use his pickers and stealers as little as possible. To
get along smoothly, it was also ordained that we must smile
when it would be more natural to tumble the intruder
out of the window; and that no matter how tired we may
be, we must not, when another is about taking our seat,
pull it from under him, and allow him to bump on the
floor.
Although education has done much to supply deficiencies,
and to make mock sympathy out of calves' heads
when the real article is not to be found, yet education,
potent as it is, cannot do all things. “Crooked disciples”
will exist from time to time, and to prove it, let the story
be told of
Jacob Grigsby.
Of crooked disciples, Jacob Grigsby is the crookedest.
His disposition is twisted like a ram's horn, and none
can tell in what direction will be the next turn. He is
an independent abstraction—one of that class, who do
not seem aware that any feelings are to be consulted but
their own, and who take the last bit, as if unconscious
that it is consecrated to that useful divinity “manners;”
lads, who always run in first when the bell rings, and
cannot get their boots off when any body tumbles overboard;
who, when compelled to share their bed with
another, lie in that engrossing posture called “cattycornered,”
and when obliged to rise early, whistle, sing
and dance, that none may enjoy the slumbers denied to
them;—in short, he strongly resembles that engaging
species of the human kind, who think it creditable to
talk loud at theatres and concerts, and to encore songs
and concertos which nobody else wants to hear. Grigsby
was born with the idea that the rest of the world,
animate or inanimate, was constructed simply for his
special amusement, and that if it did not answer the purpose,
it was his indefeasible right to declare war against
the offender. When a boy, he was known as a “real
limb”—of what tree it is unnecessary to specify. He
was an adept in placing musk melon rinds on the pavement
for the accommodation of those elderly gentlemen
whose skating days were over, and many a staid matron
received her most impressive lessons in ground and lofty
across the way. Every child in the neighbourhood
learnt to “see London” through his telescope, and he
was famous for teaching youngsters to write hog Latin
by jerking pens full of ink through their lips. At school
he was remarkable for his science in crooking pins, and
placing them on the seats of the unsuspicious, and ever
since he has continued to be a thorn in the side of those
who are unlucky enough to come in contact with him.
Grigsby has now grown to man's estate—a small property
in most instances, and in his it must be simply the
interest of his whiskers, which extend some inches beyond
his nose and chin—he having nothing else clear
of embarrassment. He is said to be more of a limb than
ever, his unaccommodating spirit having increased with
his trunk. The good qualities which were to appear in
him are yet in the soil, no sprouts having manifested
themselves. He is savagely jocular in general, and jocosely
quarrelsome in his cups in particular. He stands
like a bramble in life's highway, and scratches the cuticle
from all that passes.
This amiable individual is particularly fond of cultivating
his physical energies, and one of his chief delights
is in the display of his well practised powers. He sometimes
awakens a friend from a day dream, by a slap on
the shoulder which might be taken for the blow of a cannon
ball. His salutation is accompanied by a grasp of
your hand, so vigorously given that you are painfully
reminded of his affectionate disposition and the strength
of his friendship for a week afterwards; and he smiles to
see his victims writhe under a clutch which bears no
little resemblance in its pressure to the tender embrace
of a smith's vice. To this Herculean quality Grigsby
always recurs with satisfaction, and indeed it must be
great source of pleasure in this mundane sphere. There
are few who do not derive satisfaction from believing
that, in some respect, they are more worthy than their
neighbours—and self-love, if the truth were known, performs
many curious operations to enable its possessor to
enjoy the delight of thinking that there are points in
which he is unsurpassed. Should his countenance be
of the most unprepossessing cast, he gazes in the mirror
until convinced that whatever is lost in beauty, is gained
in expression. Should he have a temper as rash and unreasonable
as the whirlwind, it is to him but a proof of
superior susceptibility and of an energetic will; if thin,
he is satisfied that he possesses a free unencumbered
spirit; and if nature has provided him with a superabundance
of flesh, he comforts himself with the idea of
an imposing aspect, and of being able, physically at least,
to make a figure in the world. The melancholy man,
instead of charging his nervous system with treachery,
or his stomach with disaffection, finds a stream of sunshine
in his gloom, from the impression that it is left to
him alone to see reality divested of its deceptive hues—
and smiles sourly on the merry soul who bears it as if
existence were a perpetual feast, and as if he were a butterfly
upon an ever-blooming prairie.
The pride of art likewise comes in as a branch of this
scheme of universal comfort. The soldier and the politician
rejoice in their superior skill in tactics and strategie—and
even if foiled, charge the result upon circumstances
beyond their control; while even the scavenger
plumes himself upon the superior skill and accuracy with
which he can execute the fancy work of sweeping round
a post: but none feel the pride of which we speak more
strongly than those who are addicted to the practice of
frames; their very coats are buttoned tight across the
breast to express it; and it is exhibited on every possible
occasion. In their dwellings, wo upon the tables and
chairs—and they cannot see a pair of parallels or cross
bars without experimenting upon them.
At a period when Grigsby was in the full flush of his
gymnastic powers, he returned from a supper late at
night, with several companions. After Grigsby had
created much polite amusement by torturing several dogs
and sundry pigs, they attempted a serenade, but they
were not in voice; and after trying a cotillion and a galopade
in front of the State House, which were not quite
so well executed as might have been desired, they separated,
each to his home—if he could get there. Grigsby
strolled along humming a tune, until his eye happened
to be greeted by the welcome sight of an awning-post.
He stopped, and regarded it for a long time with critical
gravity.
“This will answer famously,” said he. “Tom brags
that he can beat me with his arms; but I don't believe
it. Any how, his legs are no great shakes. There's no
more muscle in them than there is in an unstarched shirt
collar; and I don't believe, if he was to practise for ten
years, he could hang by his toes, swing up and catch
hold. No, that he couldn't; I'm the boy, and I'll exercise
at it.”
It is however much easier to resolve than to execute.
Mr. Grigsby found it impossible to place himself in the
requisite antipodean posture.
“Why, what the deuse is the matter? All the supper
must have settled down in my toes, for my boots feel
heavier than fifty-sixes. My feet are completely obfuscated,
while my head is as clear as a bell. But `never
he, making another desperate but ineffectual effort.
An individual with a white hat and with his hands
deeply immersed in the pockets of his shooting jacket,
now advanced from the tree against which he had been
leaning, while chuckling at the doings of Mr. Grigsby.
“Hay, whiskers, what's the fun in doing that, particularly
when you can't do it?” said he.
“Can you hang by your toes, stranger? Because if
you can, you'll beat Tom, in spite of his bragging.”
“I don't believe I can. The fact is, I always try to
keep this side up with care. I never could see the use of
shaking a man up like a bottle of physic. I can mix myself
to my own taste without that.”
“You've no taste for the fine arts, whatever you may
have for yourself. Gymnastics stir up the sugar of a
man's constitution, and neutralize the acids. Without
'em, he's no better than a bottle of pepper vinegar—
nothing but sour punch.”
“Very likely, but I'll have neither hand nor foot in
hanging to an awning-post. If it was like the brewer's
horse in Old Grimes, and you could drink up all the beer
by turning your head where your feet should be, perhaps
I might talk to you about it.”
Grigsby, however, by dint of expatiating on the beneficial
tendency of gymnastics, at last prevailed upon the
stranger to make the attempt.
“Now,” said he, “let me bowse you up, and if you
can hang by your toes, I'll treat handsome.”
“Well, I don't care if I do,” replied the stranger
with a grin, as he grasped the cross-bar—“hoist my
heels and look sharp.”
Jacob chuckled as he took the stranger by the boots,
intending to give him a fall if possible, and to thrash him
he tumbled heavily upon his assistant, both rolling on the
bricks together.
“Fire and tow!” ejaculated Grigsby.
“Now we're mixed nicely,” grunted the stranger, as
he scrambled about. “If any man gets more legs and
arms than belong to him, they're mine. Hand over the
odd ones, and let's have a complete set.”
`This will never do,” said Grigsby, after they had
regained their feet, and still intent on his design. “It
will never do in the world—you're so confoundely
awkward. Come, have at it again; once more and the
last.”
“Young people,” interposed a passing official, “if
you keep a cutting didoes, I must talk to you both like
a Dutch uncle. Each of you must disperse; I can't allow
no insurrection about the premises. If you ain't got no
dead-latch key, and the nigger won't set up, why I'll
take you to the corporation free-and-easy, and lock you
up till daylight, and we'll fetch a walk after breakfast
to converse with his honour on matters and things in
general.”
“Very well,” answered Grigsby—“but now you've
made your speech, do you think you could hang by your
toes to that post?”
“Pooh! pooh! don't be redikalis. When matters is
solemn, treat 'em solemn.”
“Why, I ain't redikalis—we're at work on science.
I'm pretty well scienced myself, and I want to get
more so.”
“Instead of talking, you'd better paddle up street like
a white-head. Go home to sleep like your crony—see
how he shins it.”
“I will,” said Grigsby, who likes a joke occasionally,
otherwise—“I will, if you'll tell me what's the use. In
the first place, home's a fool to this—and as for sleeping,
it's neither useful nor ornamental.”
“Do go, that's a good boy—I don't want to chaw you
right up, but I must if you stay.”
“I snore when I'm asleep—and when I do, Tom
puts his foot out of bed till it's cold, and then claps it to
my back. He calls it firing me off on the cold pressure
principle.”
“What a cruel Tom! But why don't you keep your
mouth shut? You should never wear it open when you're
asleep.”
“If I did, my dreams would get smothered. Besides,
I like to look down my throat, to see what I'm thinking
about.”
“Don't quiz me, young man. Some things is easy to
put up with, and some things isn't easy to put up with;
and quizzing a dignittery is one of the last. If there is
any thing I stands upon, it's dignitty.”
“Dignitty made of pipe-stems, isn't it?”
“My legs is pretty legs. They ain't so expressive as
some what's made coarser and cheaper; but they're slim
and genteel. But legs are neither here nor there. You
must go home, sonny, or go with me.”
“Well, as I'm rather select in my associations, and
never did admire sleeping thicker than six in a bed at the
outside, I'll go home, put a woollen stocking on Tom's
foot, and take a pint of sleep: I never try more, for my
constitution won't stand it. But to-morrow I'll swing by
my toes, I promise you.”
“Go, then. Less palaver and more tortle.”
“Tortelons nous—good night; I'm off to my lit.”
The censor morum wrapping himself in his consequence,
corner, and then, relaxing his dignitty, laughed creakingly,
like a rusty door.
“Hee! hee! hee!—that's a real fine feller. He's too
good for his own good—makes something of a fuss every
night—always funny or fighting, and never pays his debts.
Hee! hee! hee! a real gentleman—gives me half a dollar
a New Year's—a real—past two o'clock and a cloudy
morning!—sort of a gentleman, and encourages our business
like an emperor, only I haven't got the heart to take
advantage of it.”
Jacob Grigsby moved homeward, his temper souring as
he proceeded and as the pleasant excitement of the evening
began to wear off. Some people, by the way, are
always good humoured abroad, and reserve their savage
traits for home consumption. Of this class is Grigsby.
Where he boards, the rule is to stow thick—three in a
bed when the weather is warm, and, in the colder season,
by way of saving blankets, four in a bed is the rule.
Now, even three in a bed is by no means a pleasant
arrangement at the best, when the parties are docile in
their slumbers, and lie “spoon fashion,” all facing the
same way, and it is terrible if one of the triad be of an
uneasy disposition. Grigsby's “pardeners,” however,
are quiet lads, and there is an understanding among the
three that turn about shall be the law in regard to the
middle place, which therefore falls to his share every third
week—one week in, and two weeks out—the soft never
to be monopolized by any one individual, and nobody to
turn round more than once in the course of the night.
Grigsby is borne down by the majority; but when it is his
week in, he is worse than the armed rhinoceros or the
Hyrcan tiger, so ferocious are his ebullitions of wrath.
It happened to be his week “in,” the thought whereof
moved his ire, and he ascended the stairs with the
energetic tread of an ox, set fire to the cat's tail with the
candle, and poked a long nine down Carlo's throat.
“Ha!” said Jacob, as he kicked open the door, surveyed
his sleeping bedfellows, and flashed the light in
their eyes—“mighty comfortable that, anyhow; but I'll
soon spoil it, or I'm not a true Grigsby.”
He put out the light, and in full dress—boots, hat,
great coat, body coat, and pantaloons—muddy as he was,
scrambled over the bed two or three times, until he established
himself in the central station between his co-mates.
He rolled and he tossed, he kicked and he groaned,
until the whole concern were as wide awake as himself.
“Why, Jacob, you've got your boots on,” said they.
“The fact is, fellows, the cold in my head is getting
worse, and sleeping in boots draws down the inflammation.
It's a certain cure.”
“But you don't intend sleeping with your hat on your
head, do you?”
“Didn't I tell you I've got holes in my stockings? If
I don't keep my hat on, I'll be sure to have the rheuma
tism in my big toe.”
“Well, we won't stand it, no how it can be fixed.”
“Just as you like—go somewhere else—I've no ob
jection. I'm amazing comfortable.”
“Why, thunder and fury!” said one, jerking up his
leg, “your boots are covered with mud.”
“That are a fact—you've no idea how muddy the
streets are—I'm all over mud—I wish you'd blow up the
corporation. But hang it, give us a fip's worth of sheet
and a 'levy's worth of blanket. That's the way I like
'em mixed—some lean and a good deal of fat.”
So saying, Jacob wound himself up in the bed-clothes
entirely.
Grigsby's co-mates however, knowing that “who
would be free, themselves must strike the blow,” declared
war against the manifold outrages of their oppressor,
and, notwithstanding his gymnastic powers, succeeded in
obtaining the mastery. Much enraged, they resolved
upon carrying him down stairs and placing him under
the hydrant as a punishment for his violations of the
social compact, and were proceeding to put their determination
in force, when Bobolink and the rest of the
boarders, alarmed at the noise, popped out of their chambers.
“What's the fraction—vulgar or decimal?” said Bobolink.
“Vengeance!” panted Grigsby—“revenge! I'm insulted—let
me go!”
The cause of quarrel was explained—all cried shame
upon Mr. Jacob Grigsby, and Mr. Bobolink constituted
himself judge on the occasion.
“They kicked me!” roared the prisoner.
“Yes,” replied Bobolink, “but as they hadn't their
boots on, it wasn't downright Mayor's court assault and
battery—only an insult with intent to hurt—assault and
battery in the second degree—a species of accidental
homicide. Perhaps you were going down stairs, and they
walked too quick after you—toeing it swift, and 'most
walked into you. What was it for?”
“Look ye,” said Grigsby—“it's very late—yes, it's
nearly morning, and I didn't take time to fix myself for
a regular sleep, so I turned in like a trooper's horse, and
that's the whole matter.”
“Like a trooper's horse—how's that?”
“I'll explain,” said one of the spectators—“to turn
ready for a sudden call—parade order—winter uniform—
full dress—a very good fashion when you've been out to
supper—convenient in case of fire, and saves a deal of
trouble in the morning when you're late for breakfast.”
“Well, I never heard tell of the likes on the part of a
white man. They served you right, and my judgment is,
as you won't be quiet, that you be shut in the back-cellar
till breakfast time. I'm not going to have any more row.
If you don't like it, you can appeal afterwards.”
“Never heerd the likes!” said Jacob contemptuously;
“ain't a bed a bed—ain't my share of it, my share
of it?—and where's the law that lays down what sort of
clothes a man must sleep in? I'll wear a porcupine jacket,
and sleep in it too, if I like—yes, spurs, and a trumpet,
and a spanner.”
“Put him in the cellar,” was the reply, and in spite
of his struggles the sentence was laughingly enforced.
“Bobolink, let's out, or I'll burst the door—let's out—
I want vengeance!”
“Keep yourself easy—you can't have any vengeance
till morning. Perhaps they'll wrap some in a bit of paper,
and keep it for you.”
But in the morning Grigsby disappeared, and returned
no more.
| THE CROOKED DISCIPLE;
OR, THE PRIDE OF MUSCLE. Charcoal sketches, or, Scenes in a metropolis | |