Part 22 (2/2)

One of the richest and most incomprehensible scenes ever witnessed on the modern stage was the final one between _Hamlet_ and the _Ghost_, who, finding the weather chilly, had done his best to mitigate his sufferings by putting on an overcoat. _Hamlet_, trying to look fierce, holding his sword at arm's length, performing a kind of original fancy-dance, as he followed the spiritual remains of his ghostly father across the stage--_Hamlet_, the mortal, being about the size of a mutton-ham, while his father, the immortal, supposed to be exceedingly ethereal, was tall enough and stout enough for a professional coal-heaver, instead of an amateur ghost--the intangible spirit, moreover, having one hand in his overcoat pocket, to keep his fingers warm, while in the other he flourished a short broomstick, as if to keep his degenerate scion at a respectful distance, were so ludicrous, that John Spout seized Wagstaff's book, and produced the sketch to be found at the beginning of this chapter.

And in the last death-scene _Hamlet_ really won such honors as were never before accorded to mortal tragedian; being by this time a little doubtful whom to kill, he made an end of the entire company in rotation.

First, he stabbed the _King_, who rolled over once or twice, and died with his legs so tangled up in the _Queen's_ train that _she_ had to expire in a hard knot; then he stabbed _Laertes_, who died cross-legged; then he stabbed _Osric_; and not content with this, he tripped up his heels and stood on his stomach, till he died in an agony of indigestion; then he tried to stick _Horatio_, but only succeeded in knocking his wig off; and then, turning up stage, made extensive preparations for terminating his own existence.

First, as everybody was dead, and everybody's legs were lying round loose, he had to lay them out of the way carefully, so as not to interfere with the comfort of the corpses; then he picked up all the swords and laid them cautiously in a corner, so that the points shouldn't stick in him when he fell; then he looked up at the curtain to see that he was clear of that, then he looked down at the traps to see that he was clear of them, and having at last arranged everything to his satisfaction, he proceeded to go systematically through his dying agonies, to the great satisfaction of the audience. Suffice it to say, that when the spasms were ended, and he had finally become a ”cold corpus,” his black tights were very dirty and had holes in the knees.

When the curtain went down _Hamlet_ was too exhausted to get up, and instantly everybody rushed to the rescue; those he had slaughtered but a few minutes before, forgot their mortal wounds, and hastened to the murderer with something to drink. The _King_ rushed up with a pewter mug of beer; _Horatio_ presented the brandy-bottle; the _Ghost_ handed him a gla.s.s of gin and sugar; the _Queen_ gave him the little end of a Bologna sausage and a piece of cheese; the stage carpenter, in his bewilderment, could think of nothing but the glue-pot; the property man hastened to his aid with a tin cup full of rose-pink, and a plate-full of property apple-dumplings (ingeniously but deceptively constructed out of canvas and bran), while an insane scene-s.h.i.+fter first deluged him with water, and then offered him the bucket to dry himself with.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

John Spout, who had been behind the curtain, and witnessed this last performance, immediately came out, borrowed Wagstaff's notebook, and left therein his pictorial reminiscence of this scene as follows: Overdale had been profuse in his explanations of the many curious scenes, and Wagstaff had noted down his words carefully in his memorandum-book. Once when the _Ghost_ tripped and fell through the scenery, caving in the side of a brick house, and kicking his spiritual heels through the belfry of a church in the background, Overdale said that this was _Ophelia_, who had been taken suddenly crazy, and in her frenzy had imagined it necessary to hasten to the nearest grocery for a bar of soap to saw her leg off with. _Polonius_, he explained, was _Horatio_, and _Hamlet_ was a little boy who run on errands for the cook of the palace, by which culinary appellation he designated the Queen of Denmark. He said the plot of the piece was, that the king wanted to marry the cook, but her relatives objected to the alliance, because his majesty hadn't got s.h.i.+rts enough for a change.

All of which was carefully written down by Wagstaff, with divers alterations, emendations, additions, and extemporaneous ill.u.s.trations, by John Spout.

This last-named individual a.s.serts to the present time that he cannot tell who were the most humbugged--the people who paid their money, and laughed at the play under the impression that it was a farce, or the unfortunates who performed the play, laboring under the hallucination that they were acting tragedy.

All were, however, satisfied, that it was a kink of the Elephant's tail, which he has not yet uncurled in any city of America--save Gotham.

MRS. THROUGHBY DAYLIGHT'S FANCY DRESS JAM.

”Black spirits and white, Red spirits and grey, Mingle, mingle”----

MR. Remington Dropper had a great respect for upper tendom; was almost inclined to admit, without question, its claims to the wors.h.i.+p of the vulgar ma.s.ses, and confessed that when he saw one whom he took to be a leader of fas.h.i.+on coming, he felt an involuntary movement of his right hand towards his hat. He admitted that he had, by this manner of doing indiscriminate homage to well-dressed people, on several occasions taken off his hat to notorious horse-jockeys, faro-dealers, and gamblers.

”However,” said John Spout, ”if you want to go to a grand fancy dress ball, where you will meet all 'the world,' as these try-to-be-fas.h.i.+onable people call those who have sc.r.a.ped together dollars enough to ent.i.tle them to their royal notice, I can very easily get you an invitation. Mrs.

Throughby Daylight, whose husband made a fortune by selling patent medicine, and thereby purged himself of poverty and plebeianism together, gives, in a short time, a grand fantasquerade, which is intended to be the most consolidated fancy dress jam of the season. Do you want to go?”

”Go,” replied Dropper, ”how can I go? I don't know Mrs. Throughby Daylight, or Mr. Throughby Daylight, or any of the Daylights, so that Daylight is all moons.h.i.+ne.”

”Dropper,” was the response, ”you're young; I excuse that, for you can't help it; but you're also _green_, which I cannot forgive; your verdancy is particularly noticeable when you revive the absolute absurdity of supposing that it is necessary to be acquainted with a lady before you are invited to attend her parties. That antiquated idea has been long since exploded. Why, my dear sir, it is no more necessary that you should have ever previously heard of a woman whose 'jam' you receive an invitation to attend, than it is probable she knows who _you_ are, or where the devil you come from.”

Dropper was bewildered.

”It is a positive fact,” continued Spout. ”Why, bless your innocent eyes, a woman of fas.h.i.+on no more knows the names of the individuals who attend her grand party, than she knows who took tea last night with the man in the moon. She merely orders music and provisions, makes out a list of a few persons she _must_ have, has her rooms actually measured, allows eight inches square to a guest; thus having estimated the number that can crowd into her house, she multiplies it by two, which gives the amount of invitations to be issued, after which she leaves the rest to Brown. Brown takes the list; Brown finds the required number of guests.

Brown invites whom he pleases; Brown fills the house with people, and Brown, and only Brown, knows who they are, where they came from, or how the deuce they got their invitations.”

Dropper, still more bewildered, inquired who Brown was.

”Brown,” explained John Spout, ”is the Magnus Apollo of fas.h.i.+onable society--he is the s.e.xton of Graceless Chapel, and no one can be decently married, or fas.h.i.+onably buried without his a.s.sistance. He has a wedding face and a funeral face, but never forgets himself and cries over the bride or laughs at the mourners; he is great as a s.e.xton, but it is only in his character of master of ceremonies at a party, that he rises into positive sublimity--he is the consoler of aspiring unfas.h.i.+onables, who have got plenty of money, and want to cut a swell, but don't know how to begin. He is the furnisher of raw material on short notice, for fas.h.i.+onable parties of all dimensions; his genius is equal to any emergency, though, as the latest fas.h.i.+on is to invite three times as many people as can get into the house at any one time, Brown is often put to his trumps. Mrs. Codde Fishe last week wanted to give a party, and, of course, called on Brown. Brown measured the parlors; they would only hold 1728, even by putting the chairs down cellar, and turning the piano up endways. Mrs. Codde Fishe was in despair. Mrs. P.

Nutt had received 1800 at her party the night before, and if she couldn't have 2000 she would be ruined. Brown's genius saved her. 'Mrs.

F.,' said he, 'though we must invite 2000 people, and though we must have 2000 people in the house, they need not be all there at one time, and they need not all stay.'

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