Theres Pippins and Cheese to Come | Page 2

try "Our Chicken Chop Soy." The quartering of the
House of Hohenzollern wears a baldric in praise of "Subgum Noodle
Warmein," which it seems they cook to an unusual delicacy. Even a
wall painting of Rip Van Winkle bowling at tenpins in the mountains is
now set off with a pigtail. But the chairs were Dutch and remain as
such. Generally, however, Chinese restaurants are on the second story.
Probably there is a ritual from the ancient days of Ming Ti that
Chinamen when they eat shall sit as near as possible to the sacred
moon.
But hold a bit! In your haste up town to find a place to eat, you are

missing some of the finer sights upon the way. In these windows that
you pass, the merchants have set their choicest wares. If there is any
commodity of softer gloss than common, or one shinier to the eye--so
that your poverty frets you--it is displayed here. In the window of the
haberdasher, shirts--mere torsos with not a leg below or head
above--yet disport themselves in gay neckwear. Despite their
dismemberment they are tricked to the latest turn of fashion. Can vanity
survive such general amputation? Then there is hope for immortality.
But by what sad chance have these blithe fellows been disjointed? If a
gloomy mood prevails in you--as might come from a bad turn of the
market--you fancy that the evil daughter of Herodias still lives around
the corner, and that she has set out her victims to the general view. If
there comes a hurdy-gurdy on the street and you cock your ear to the
tune of it, you may still hear the dancing measure of her wicked feet.
Or it is possible that these are the kindred of Holofernes and that they
have supped guiltily in their tents with a sisterhood of Judiths.
Or we may conceive--our thoughts running now to food--that these
gamesome creatures of the haberdasher had dressed themselves for a
more recent banquet. Their black-tailed coats and glossy shirts attest a
rare occasion. It was in holiday mood, when they were fresh-combed
and perked in their best, that they were cut off from life. It would
appear that Jack Ketch the headsman got them when they were rubbed
and shining for the feast. We'll not squint upon his writ. It is enough
that they were apprehended for some rascality. When he came
thumping on his dreadful summons, here they were already set, fopped
from shoes to head in the newest whim. Spoon in hand and bib across
their knees--lest they fleck their careful fronts--they waited for the
anchovy to come. And on a sudden they were cut off from life, unfit,
unseasoned for the passage. Like the elder Hamlet's brother, they were
engaged upon an act that had no relish of salvation in it. You may
remember the lamentable child somewhere in Dickens, who because of
an abrupt and distressing accident, had a sandwich in its hand but no
mouth to put it in. Or perhaps you recall the cook of the Nancy Bell and
his grievous end. The poor fellow was stewed in his own stew-pot. It
was the Elderly Naval Man, you recall--the two of them being the

ship's sole survivors on the deserted island, and both of them lean with
hunger--it was the Elderly Naval Man (the villain of the piece) who
"ups with his heels, and smothers his squeals in the scum of the boiling
broth."
And yet by looking on these torsos of the haberdasher, one is not
brought to thoughts of sad mortality. Their joy is so exultant. And all
the things that they hold dear--canes, gloves, silk hats, and the newer
garments on which fashion makes its twaddle--are within reach of their
armless sleeves. Had they fingers they would be smoothing themselves
before the glass. Their unbodied heads, wherever they may be, are still
smiling on the world, despite their divorcement. Their tongues are still
ready with a jest, their lips still parted for the anchovy to come.
A few days since, as I was thinking--for so I am pleased to call my
muddy stirrings--what manner of essay I might write and how best to
sort and lay out the rummage, it happened pat to my needs that I
received from a friend a book entitled "The Closet of Sir Kenelm Digby
Knight Opened." Now, before it came I had got so far as to select a title.
Indeed, I had written the title on seven different sheets of paper, each
time in the hope that by the run of the words I might leap upon some
further thought. Seven times I failed and in the end the sheets went into
the waste basket, possibly to the confusion of Annie our cook, who
may have mistaken