[L1] "The Walnut Coffin Papers. The First Chapter,” The Citizen Soldier Sept. 20, 1843
In various parts and parcels, containing much matter for meditation, some fancy, and a good deal of sober truth, mingled with glimpses of the rise and origin of the Philadelphia literati, together with a few views of these redoubtables, in all their present glory, being in fact, a true, copious and veracious account of
THE UPRISINGS OF THE COFFIN-MAKER'S 'PRENTICE.
THE FIRST CHAPTER.
The remarkable dream of the Coffin Maker's 'Prentice.
He slept—the Coffin maker’s ’prentice.
The ancient room was full of light; the sun shone warmly through the dim and dusty windows, over the mass of lumber heaped up in one corner, over the rough bench on one side of the place, strewn and littered with various tools; and the chips and shavings scattered over the floor, looked, for all the world, like chips and shavings of substantial gold.
There was a row of coffins in one corner; one, with a bright polish, bore a silver memento of the extraordinary merits of a deceased bank director; another proclaimed to the worms of the vault, that Sarah Wiggins died a good wife, and a remarkable Christian; and a third blazoned forth the honor and veracity of a departed custom-house officer.
He slept, that rough clad boy, and his sleeping nook, was a fine substantial coffin, made of rich, brown walnut, and flung carelessly along a pile of boards, in front of the gloomy looking fire place, with its smoky walls, and corners hung with dainty wreaths of cobwebs.
He lay with his face to the smoky ceiling, the sun shining on each feature, the smiling mouth, the wan cheeks, the tangled masses of brown hair, dangling over his eyebrows, and the nose, with no particular shape, and no remarkable expression. It was an abstract nose, and as the boy slept it gave an occasional snuffle.
With regard to his garments, as far as they might be seen, it was observable that he was clad in a round-a-bout of rough corduroy, vest and trowsers of the same material, with a very pretty sprinkling of bright steel buttons. There was a red neckerchief around his neck, affording a pleasant view of a damaged shirt and collar.
He slept very pleasantly, in that room so strongly reminiscent of dead men, with worms dissipating on their carcasses, and his dreams might have been pleasant, or they might have been unpleasant; they might have been of hobgoblins, or of fairies, still he was not permitted to finish them at leisure, for a footstep disturbed the silence of the wareroom.
“Come, young gallows bird—rouse out of this high grass, will ye?”
The boy slowly opened his eyes. A tall, gaunt frame of a man, was standing over him, with two goggle eyes, gazing downward in the coffin, with a look that reminded you, of two Delaware Bay oysters, rolling about in a very large saucer.
From the projecting knots of this frame of a man’s shoulders, there hung a slouching black coat, much polished by long service, and his nether proportions were clad in dark greasy pants, swinging about his knee-knobs, like a familiar garment hung on a musical piece of wood, colloquially called a drum-stick.
“Come young gallows bird—rouse out of this high grass, will you?”
“I haint no gallows bird,”—slowly exclaimed the boy, raising himself in the coffin, and rubbing his eyes.—“And I haint a-lyin’ in no high grass.”
“Did you polish that are boy’s coffin? Did ye—you young son-of-a-gun? Did ye? Answer me that—and—you young eat-and-do-nothing—take that, to help your recollection.”
“I aint a-goin’ to polish no more baby’s coffins.”
“You aint, aint you?—Wait till I polish up this oaken towel for your spare ribs—Young Laziness.”
“No I haint. I had a dream. I dreamt visions of greatness. I did. Babys’ coffins isn’t fit business for me, I tell ye.”
”He—he—oh, yes—spare-ribs you’ll catch it in a minit. D’ye know, I’ve lost a good round penny by that coffin not being polished? D’ye know the baby’s to be buried at 4 P. M.,—funeral sermon at the ground?”
“I had a dream—”
“I had a dream.”—“And what the devil do you dream for? What right have you to dream—Thinness?”
“I had a dream o’ greatness. I’m a-goin’ to leave off polishin’ young baby’s coffins—I’m a-goin’ to take to writin’ epitaphs.”
“Very good, ve-ry good. Go on Starvation.”
“I dreamt of literary fame. I was sleepin’ on a bank of daisies, perfusely scattered with dandelions. Soft voices was a-whisperin’ in my ears—fountains was a-plain’ and little angels was a-settin’ the things for breakfast. A form approached, a long-jawed undertaker-like sort of an angel, in deep black coat, vest to match, and pants o’ th’ same material. Was jist like you Mister Graves. Had a great big long jaw on him, a wide mouth, eyes that looked as if they were set in his head a-purpose to drive Dr. Williams the Okulist ravin’ crazy with vexation cause he couldn’t cure ’em—”
“Well young whelp.”
“This figur’ advanced to me, and told me he was a angel, and ses he, my name is Grizzle. Very considerate of him, to tell me this, or I’d mistook him for the devil. Rumpus Grizzle ses he, is my name, and then he adds with a accent—Reverend Rumpus Grizzle. And he begins a prophecyin’ all sorts o’ fame to me—sich visions!”
“Well, Scape-grace, what was the shape of these visions.”
“Quite genteel. He sed, I’d be a great litterary kiracter—ownin’ a great yaller kivered pamphlet, with all sorts of nice plates o’ young ladies a nussin’ babies, little pussies playin’ with spools o’ cotton, and picturs’ of cross-eyed poets, as hadn’t been operated upon for straybisimus. He then sed I’d one day be surrounded by all the great lights o’ th’ age—be a very great man indeed, and own a fine house, with pictures on the carpet, and a big looking glass over the mantle. And I was to have a great big house near the corner o’ ——— and Chesnut streets, full six stories high, with heads popped out of each window, every time the soldiers went by—gals’ heads out of the sixth story winder—boys’ out of the fifth; my corpse of editors out of the fourth, and myself and this Grizzle (who it seems is to be a livin’ angel, about the time all these things are to come to pass) and a big, round, roly-poly faced fat man, named Sam, a-standin’ in the front door, lower story, a-speculatin’ on the probable chances o’ th’ public swallerin’ our next handbill, with 100,000 subscribers and all. And then there was a heap more to this vision.”
“Go on, my young friend—I’ll polish you up directly. Go on—oh, go on.”
“Well, my dream wound up with a pictur’ of all the Philadelphy literaty, as they be, when I growd up and these things were to come to pass. And a nice pictur’ it was—they all came crowding round the form of Rumpus Grizzzle as their head and chief, each one pokin’ his nose out as far as possible, and hollerin’ out his name and merits. ’Sun’s my name’—sed a little solemn feller—’my face is long but my heart is big,—Peter Sun’s my name, I does poetry, and pollywogues, Ladies’ magazines and extemporaneous effusions.’ ‘Sherry Cobbler is what they call me’—cried a long, sedate fellow, with a strong Scotch accent—‘I’d used to be a poor devil of a printer, and then I riz to the station of a bar keeper, and now I write’s Scotch songs, and sets ’em to music and sings ’em meself’—and so they comes crowdin’ on, one boasting that he never had no character at all, which made him feel very glad and sleep sounder at nights; another a-braggin’ how many actresses and apple gals was in love with him; his legs pertikler—while a third feller hurrahed for the way of doing his creditors, that he’d just found out, by sellin’ a bit of property to two people at once, takin’ good keer to put off filing the deed for the first purchaser until the last minit—and these was the Philadelphy literati—and I was to be the head of the heap.”
“For shame! You young konwick! To leave off the respectable business o’ polishin’ coffins, and go to such work as that—for shame!”
“I tell you what it is, my feller—my name’s Georgie—and I’m destined to be a great man, for proof of which I summon my visions. And, my feller, I start life where many a chap ends it—in a walnut coffin! That for polishin’ babies coffins—but here goes for writin’ epitaphs by way of a beginnin’—and d’ye mark me? Yaller kivered pamphlets fur ever—hurray, hurray!”