III. PETER BRUSH, THE GREAT USED UP.[7]

III. PETER BRUSH, THE GREAT USED UP.^[7]

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, common-place 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, anything 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 vapoury 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 “skyey 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 anything 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-tother, 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 towards 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 a 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 anything, 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 yon 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 mustn’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 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 crumbled 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 anything 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 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 bar rooms, talking in the oyster cellars. Talking is the grease for the waggon 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 that 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.