Yet they have the true
vagabond abhorrence of all useful and industrious employment; and they
have their pleasures too: one of which is to lounge in this way in the
sunshine, at the stage-door, during rehearsals, and make hackneyed
theatrical jokes on all passers-by.
Nothing is more traditional and legitimate than the stage. Old scenery,
old clothes, old sentiments, old ranting, and old jokes, are handed
down from generation to generation; and will probably continue to be
so, until time shall be no more. Every hanger-on of a theater becomes a
wag by inheritance, and flourishes about at tap-rooms and six-penny
clubs, with the property jokes of the green-room.
While amusing ourselves with reconnoitring this group, we noticed one
in particular who appeared to be the oracle. He was a weather-beaten
veteran, a little bronzed by time and beer, who had no doubt, grown
gray in the parts of robbers, cardinals, Roman senators, and walking
noblemen.
"There's something in the set of that hat, and the turn of that
physiognomy, that is extremely familiar to me," said Buckthorne. He
looked a little closer. "I cannot be mistaken," added he, "that must be
my old brother of the truncheon, Flimsey, the tragic hero of the
strolling company."
It was he in fact. The poor fellow showed evident signs that times went
hard with him; he was so finely and shabbily dressed. His coat was
somewhat threadbare, and of the Lord Townly cut; single-breasted, and
scarcely capable of meeting in front of his body; which, from long
intimacy, had acquired the symmetry and robustness of a beer-barrel. He
wore a pair of dingy white stockinet pantaloons, which had much ado to
reach his waistcoat; a great quantity of dirty cravat; and a pair of
old russet-colored tragedy boots.
When his companions had dispersed, Buckthorne drew him aside and made
Himself known to him. The tragic veteran could scarcely recognize him,
or believe that he was really his quondam associate "little gentleman
Jack." Buckthorne invited him to a neighboring coffee-house to talk
over old times; and in the course of a little while we were put in
possession of his history in brief.
He had continued to act the heroes in the strolling company for some
time after Buckthorne had left it, or rather had been driven from it so
abruptly. At length the manager died, and the troop was thrown into
confusion. Every one aspired to the crown; every one was for taking the
lead; and the manager's widow, although a tragedy queen, and a
brimstone to boot, pronounced it utterly impossible to keep any control
over such a set of tempestuous rascallions.
