JOSEPH C. NEAL.
A series of humorous descriptive articles, known as Charcoal Sketches, appeared in 1837 in a Philadelphia newspaper. They became famous, and for years their author was noted as a leading American humorist. Joseph C. Neal, the author of the Charcoal Sketches, was born on the third day of February, 1807, in the town of Greenland, New Hampshire. His father had for many years been the principal of a popular academy in Philadelphia, but his health failing him, he was compelled to retire to a country residence at Greenland, where, along with his other duties, he officiated as pastor in the Congregational church of the village.
When the subject of this sketch was two years old his father died, and the family soon after removed to Philadelphia, and thence to Pottsville, in the same State. Mr. Neal resided here until 1831, when he settled in Philadelphia, and assumed the duties of editor of the Pennsylvanian, a journal which became very popular, and conspicuous for its influence on the political character of the State.It was in the office of this journal that the elder James Gordon Bennett passed a portion of his early years in journalism.
For nearly ten years Mr. Neal devoted his talents to the Pennsylvanian, but at length his health failed him, and in 1841 he went abroad, traveling in Europe and Africa for nearly two years. In 1844 he retired from the editorial chair of the Pennsylvanian, and established in the autumn of the same year a weekly literary miscellany, under the title of Neal’s Saturday Gazette. Neal’s reputation as a writer secured for the Gazette an immediate and continued success.
Joseph C. Neal’s humorous sketches of that character for which he afterwards became distinguished, first appeared in the Pennsylvanian under the title of “City Worthies.” These sketches were reprinted and praised in hundreds of American newspapers. In 1837 he published Charcoal Sketches, or Scenes in a Metropolis. In these sketches he drew from life a class of characters peculiar to the lower classes and disreputable haunts in large cities. The appearance of the sketches in book form was hailed with delight, and several large editions were readily disposed of. The work was also republished in London under the auspices of Charles Dickens, who took a great interest in the American humorist and his works.
In 1844 Mr. Neal issued his second book, Peter Ploddy and Other Oddities, and soon after, another and newer series of Charcoal Sketches. Both of these books commanded a large and ready sale. Neal continued to edit the Saturday Gazette until July 3, 1848, when he died very suddenly at his home in Philadelphia, of a complication of diseases. His widow published a second and revised edition of his works some years after his death.
Soon after his death, R. W. Griswold, in his Prose Writers of America, said of Mr. Neal: “He writes as if he had little or no sympathy with his creations, and as if he were a calm spectator of acts and actors, whimsical or comical,—an observer rather by accident than from desire.... His style is compact and pointed, abounding in droll combinations and peculiar phrases, which have the ease and naturalness of transcripts of real conversations. He had too much good nature to be caustic, and too much refinement to be coarse. In some of his sketches he exhibits not only a happy faculty for the burlesque, and singular skill in depicting character, but a generality and heartiness of appreciation which carry the reader’s feelings along with his fancy.”
The following selection from Peter Ploddy will tend to show Mr. Neal’s peculiar style of writing:
“‘Common people, Billy—low, common people, can’t make it out when nature raised a gentleman in the family—a gentleman all complete, only the money’s been forgot. If a man won’t work all the time—day in and day out—if he smokes by the fire, or whistles out of the winder, the very gals bump agin him, and say, “Git out of the way, loaf!”“‘But, Billy, my son, never mind, and keep not a lettin’ on,” continued Nollikens, and a beam of hope irradiated his otherwise Saturnine countenance; “the world’s a railroad, and the cars is comin’—all we’ll have to do is to jump in, chalked free. There will be a time—something must happen. Rich widders are about yet, though they are snapped up so fast. Rich widders, Billy, are “special providences,” as my old boss used to say when I broke my nose in the entry, sent here like rafts to pick up deservin’ chaps when they can’t swim no longer. When you’ve bin down twy’st, Billy, and are jist off agin, then comes the widder afloatin’ along. Why, splatter docks is nothin’ to it, and a widder is the best of all life-preservers, when a man is most a case, like you and me.’“‘Wall, I’m not perticklar, not I, nor never was. I’ll take a widder, for my part, if she’s got the mint drops, and never ask no questions. I’m not proud—never was harrystocratic—I drinks withanybody, and smokes all the cigars they give me. What’s the use of bein’ stuck up, stiffy? It’s my principle that other folks are nearly as good as me, if they’re not constables nor aldermen. I can’t stand them sort.’“‘No, Billy,’ said Nollikens, with an encouraging smile, ‘no, Billy, such indiwidooals as them don’t know human natur’—but, as I was agoin to say, if there happens to be a short crop of widders, why can’t somebody leave us a fortin?—that will do as well if not better. Now look here—what’s easier than this? I’m standin’ on the wharf—the rich man tries to go aboard of the steamboat—the niggers push him off the plank—in I jumps, ca-splash! The old gentleman isn’t drowned; but he might have been drowned but for me, and if he had a bin, where’s the use of his money then? So he gives me as much as I want now, and a great deal more when he defuncts riggler, accordin’ to law and the practice of civilized nations. You see—that’s the way the thing works. I’m at the wharf every day—can’t afford to lose a chance, and I begin to wish the old chap would hurry about comin’ along. What can keep him?’“‘If it ’ud come to the same thing in the end,’ remarked Billy Bunkers, ‘I’d rather the niggers would push the old man’s little boy into the water,if it’s all the same to him. Them fat old fellers are so heavy when they’re skeered, and hang on so—why I might get drowned before I had time to go to the bank with the check! But what’s the use of waitin’? Couldn’t we shove ’em in some warm afternoon ourselves? Who’d know in the crowd?’“‘I’ve thought of that, Bunkers, when a man was before me who looked the right sort,—but, Billy, there might be mistakes—perhaps, when you got him out, he couldn’t pay. What then?’“‘Why, keep puttin new ones to soak every day, till you fish up the right one.’“‘It won’t do,—my friend—they’d smoke the joke—all the riffraff in town would be pushin’ old gentlemen into the river, and the elderly folks would have to give up travelin’ by the steamboat. We must wait till the real thing happens. The right person will be sure to come along.’“‘I hope so; and so it happens quick, I don’t much care whether the old man, his little boy, or the rich widder gets the ducking. I’m not proud.’“‘Then you’ll see me come the nonsense over the old folks—who’s loafer now?—and my dog will bite their cat—who’s ginger pop, and jam spruce beer, at this present writin’, I’d like to know?’“Thus, wrapped in present dreams and future anticipations—aking that is to be—lives Nicholas Nollikens—the grand exemplar of the corner loungers. Nicholas and his tribe exist but for to-morrow, and rely firmly on that poetic justice, which should reward those who wait patiently until the wheel of fortune turns up a prize.”
“‘Common people, Billy—low, common people, can’t make it out when nature raised a gentleman in the family—a gentleman all complete, only the money’s been forgot. If a man won’t work all the time—day in and day out—if he smokes by the fire, or whistles out of the winder, the very gals bump agin him, and say, “Git out of the way, loaf!”
“‘But, Billy, my son, never mind, and keep not a lettin’ on,” continued Nollikens, and a beam of hope irradiated his otherwise Saturnine countenance; “the world’s a railroad, and the cars is comin’—all we’ll have to do is to jump in, chalked free. There will be a time—something must happen. Rich widders are about yet, though they are snapped up so fast. Rich widders, Billy, are “special providences,” as my old boss used to say when I broke my nose in the entry, sent here like rafts to pick up deservin’ chaps when they can’t swim no longer. When you’ve bin down twy’st, Billy, and are jist off agin, then comes the widder afloatin’ along. Why, splatter docks is nothin’ to it, and a widder is the best of all life-preservers, when a man is most a case, like you and me.’
“‘Wall, I’m not perticklar, not I, nor never was. I’ll take a widder, for my part, if she’s got the mint drops, and never ask no questions. I’m not proud—never was harrystocratic—I drinks withanybody, and smokes all the cigars they give me. What’s the use of bein’ stuck up, stiffy? It’s my principle that other folks are nearly as good as me, if they’re not constables nor aldermen. I can’t stand them sort.’
“‘No, Billy,’ said Nollikens, with an encouraging smile, ‘no, Billy, such indiwidooals as them don’t know human natur’—but, as I was agoin to say, if there happens to be a short crop of widders, why can’t somebody leave us a fortin?—that will do as well if not better. Now look here—what’s easier than this? I’m standin’ on the wharf—the rich man tries to go aboard of the steamboat—the niggers push him off the plank—in I jumps, ca-splash! The old gentleman isn’t drowned; but he might have been drowned but for me, and if he had a bin, where’s the use of his money then? So he gives me as much as I want now, and a great deal more when he defuncts riggler, accordin’ to law and the practice of civilized nations. You see—that’s the way the thing works. I’m at the wharf every day—can’t afford to lose a chance, and I begin to wish the old chap would hurry about comin’ along. What can keep him?’
“‘If it ’ud come to the same thing in the end,’ remarked Billy Bunkers, ‘I’d rather the niggers would push the old man’s little boy into the water,if it’s all the same to him. Them fat old fellers are so heavy when they’re skeered, and hang on so—why I might get drowned before I had time to go to the bank with the check! But what’s the use of waitin’? Couldn’t we shove ’em in some warm afternoon ourselves? Who’d know in the crowd?’
“‘I’ve thought of that, Bunkers, when a man was before me who looked the right sort,—but, Billy, there might be mistakes—perhaps, when you got him out, he couldn’t pay. What then?’
“‘Why, keep puttin new ones to soak every day, till you fish up the right one.’
“‘It won’t do,—my friend—they’d smoke the joke—all the riffraff in town would be pushin’ old gentlemen into the river, and the elderly folks would have to give up travelin’ by the steamboat. We must wait till the real thing happens. The right person will be sure to come along.’
“‘I hope so; and so it happens quick, I don’t much care whether the old man, his little boy, or the rich widder gets the ducking. I’m not proud.’
“‘Then you’ll see me come the nonsense over the old folks—who’s loafer now?—and my dog will bite their cat—who’s ginger pop, and jam spruce beer, at this present writin’, I’d like to know?’
“Thus, wrapped in present dreams and future anticipations—aking that is to be—lives Nicholas Nollikens—the grand exemplar of the corner loungers. Nicholas and his tribe exist but for to-morrow, and rely firmly on that poetic justice, which should reward those who wait patiently until the wheel of fortune turns up a prize.”