THE MAY-DAY MOVING
“They met, ’twas in a crowd”—on the stairs, and Smith“Thought that Brown would shun him,”—but he didn’t!
They begin to load. Just as they get fairly at work, the Browns (the Smiths’ successors) arrive, with an appalling display of stock. Brown is a vulgar fellow, who has suddenly become rich, and whose ideas of manliness all center in brutality. He is furious because the Smiths are not “clean gone.” He “can’t wait there, all day, in the street.” He orders his men to “carry the things into the house,” and heads the column himself with a costly rocking-chair in his arms. As Brown comes up with his rocking-chair, Smith, at the head of his men, descends, with a bureau, from the second floor.
“They met, ’twas in a crowd”—
“They met, ’twas in a crowd”—
on the stairs, and Smith
“Thought that Brown would shun him,”
“Thought that Brown would shun him,”
—but he didn’t! The consequence was, they came in collision; or, rather, Smith’s bureau and Brown’s rocking-chair came in collision. Now, said bureau was an old-fashioned, hardwood affair, made for service, while Brown’s rocking-chair was a flimsy, showy fabric, of modern make. The meeting on the stairs occasions some squeezing, and more stumbling, and Brown suddenly finds himself and chair under the bureau, to the great injury of his person and his furniture. (Brown has since recovered, but the case of the rocking-chair is considered hopeless.) This discomfiture incenses the Browns to a high degree, and they determine to be as annoying as possible; so they persist in bringing their furniture into the house, and up stairs, as the Smiths are carrying theirs out of the house, and down stairs. Collisions are, of course, the order of the day; but the Smiths do not mind this much, as they have a great advantage, viz:their furniture is not half so good as Brown’s. After a few smashes, Brown receives light on this point, and orders his forces to remain quiet, while the foe evacuates thepremises; so the Smiths retire in peace—and much of their furniture in pieces.
The four carts form quite a respectable procession; but there is no disguising the fact that the furniture looks very shabby (and whose furniture does not look shabby, piled on carts?); so the Smiths prudently take a back street, that no one may accuse them of owning it. Smith has to carry the baby and a large mirror, which Mrs. S. was afraid to trust to the cartmen, there being no insurance on either. It being a windy day, both the mirror and Smith’s hat veer to all points of the compass, while the baby grows very red in the face at not being able to possess himself of them. Between the wind, the mirror, his hat and the baby, Smith has an unpleasant walk of it.
About ten o’clock, they arrive at their new residence, and find, to their horror, that their predecessors have not begun to move. They inquire the reason. The feminine head of the family informs them, with tears in her eyes, that her husband, (Mr. Jonas Jenkins,) has been sick in Washington for five weeks; that, in consequence of his affliction, they have not been able to provide a new tenement; that she is quite unwell, and that one of her children (she has six) is ill, also; that she don’t know what is to become of them, &c., &c. Smith sets his hat on the back of his head, gives a faint tug at his neck-tie and confesses himself—quenched! His furniture looks more odious every minute. He once felt much pride in it, but he feels none now: he feels only disgust. The cartmen begin to growl out that they “can’t stand here all day,” and request tobe informed “where we shall drop the big traps.” Hereupon, Smith ventures, with a ghastly attempt at a smile, to inquire of Mrs. Jenkins why she didn’t tell him, when he called, on Saturday, of her inability to procure a house? To which that lady innocently replies that she didn’t wish to give him any“unnecessarytrouble!” which reply satisfies him as to Mrs. Jenkin’s claim to force of intellect.
At this juncture, Smith falls into a profound reverie. He thinks that, after all, Fourier is right—“that the Solidarity of the human race is an entity;” that “nobody can be happy, until everybody is happy.” He agrees with the great philosopher, that the “series distributes the harmonies.” He realizes that “society is organized (or, rather, disorganized) on a wrong basis;” that it is in an “amorphous condition,” whereas it should be “crystalized.” With our celebrated “down east” poet, Ethan Spike, Esq., he begins to think that,
“The etarnal bung is loose,”
“The etarnal bung is loose,”
and that, unless it be soon tightened, there is danger that
“All nater will bespilt.”
“All nater will bespilt.”
He comes to the conclusion, finally, that “something must be done,” and that speedily, to “secure a home for every family.”
At this point, he is aroused by his tormenters, the cartmen, who inform him that they are in a “Barkis” state of mind, (willin’) to receive their twelve dollars. Smith pays the money, and turns to examine the premises. He finds that Mrs. Jenkins has packed all her things in the back basement and the second-floor sitting-room. Poor thing! she has done her best,after all. She is in ill health; her husband is sick, and away from home; and her children are not well. God pity the unfortunate who live in cities, especially in the “moving season.” But Smith is a kind-hearted man. With a few exceptions, the Smiths are a kind-hearted race—and that’s probably the reason they are so numerous.
Smith puts on a cheerful countenance, and busies himself inarranginghis furniture. Mrs. Smith, kind soul, forgets the destruction of her bandbox and bonnet, and cares not how long or how loud Smith whistles. Suddenly the prospect brightens! Mrs. Jenkins’ brother-in-law appears, and announces that he has found rooms for her, a little higher up town. Cartmen are soon at the door, and the Jenkinses are on their “winding way” to their new residence.
—But the Smiths’ troubles are not yet over. The painters, who were to have had the house all painted the day before, have done nothing but leave their paint-pots in the hall, and a little Smithling, being of an investigating turn of mind, and hungry, withal, attempts to make a late breakfast off the contents of one of them. He succeeds in eating enough to disgust him with his bill of fare, and frighten his mamma into hysterics. A doctor is sent for: he soon arrives, and, after attending to the mother, gives the young adventurer a facetious chuck under the chin, and pronounces him perfectly safe. The parents are greatly relieved, for Willy is a pet; and they confidently believe him destined to be President of the United States, if they can only keep paint-pots out of his way.
It takes the Smiths some ten days to get “to rights.” Theparticulars of their further annoyances—how the carpets didn’t fit; how the cartmen “lost the pieces;” how the sofas couldn’t be made to look natural; how the pianoforte was too large to stand behind the parlor door, and too small to stand between the front windows; how the ceiling was too low, and the book-case too high; how a bottle of indelible ink got into the bureau by mistake and “marked” all Mrs. Smith’s best dresses—I forbear to inflict on the reader. Suffice it to say, the Smiths are in “a settled state;” although their apartments give signs of the recent manifestation of a strong disturbing force—reminding one, somewhat, of a “settlement” slowly recovering from the visitation of an earthquake. Still, they are thankful for present peace, and are determined,positively, not to move again—until next May.
I am weary of this hollow show and glitter—weary of fashion’s stereotyped lay-figures—weary of smirking fops and brainless belles, exchanging their small coin of flattery and their endless genuflexions: let us go out of Broadway—somewhere, anywhere. Turn round the wheel, Dame Fortune, and show up the other side.
“The Tombs!”—we never thought to be there! nevertheless, we are not to be frightened by a grated door or a stone wall, so we pass in; leaving behind the soft wind of this Indian summer day, to lift the autumn leaves as gently as does a loving nurse her drooping child.
We gaze into the narrow cells, and draw a long breath. Poor creatures, tempted and tried. How many to whom the world now pays its homage, who sit in high places,shouldbe in their stead? God knoweth. See them, with their pale faces pressed up against the grated windows, or pacing up and down their stone floors, like chained beasts. There is a little boy not more than ten years old; what hashedone?
“Stolen a pair of shoes!”
Poor child! he never heard of “Swartout.” How should he know that he was put in there not forstealing, but for doing it on so small a scale?
Hist! Do you see that figure seated in the farther corner of that cell, with his hands crossed on his knees? His whole air and dress are those of a gentleman. How came such a man as that here?
“For murder?” How sad! Ah! somewhere in the length and breadth of the land, a mother’s heart is aching because she spared the rod to spoil the child.
There is a coffin, untenanted as yet, but kept on hand; for Death laughs at bolts and fetters, and many a poor wretch is borne struggling within these gloomy walls, only to be carried to his last home, while none but God may ever know at whose fireside stands his vacant chair.
And here is a woman’s cell. There are two or three faded dresses hanging against the walls, and a bonnet, for which she has little use. Her friends have brought her some bits of carpeting, which she has spread over the stone floor, with her womanly love of order, (poor thing,) to make the place lookhome-like. And there is a crucifix in the corner. See, she kneels before it! May the Holy Virgin’s blessed Son, who said to the sinning one, “Neither do I condemn thee,” send into her stricken heart the balm of holy peace.
Who is that? No! itcannotbe—but, yes, it is he—and what a wreck! See, he shrinks away, and a bright flush chases the marble paleness from his cheek. God bless me! That R——, should come to this! Still, Intemperance, with her thousand voices, crieth “Give! give!” and still, alas! it is the gifted, and generous, and warm-hearted, who oftenest answer the summons.
More cells?—but there is no bed in them; only a wooden platform, raised over the stone floor. It is for gutter drunkards—too foul, too loathsome to be placed upon a bed—turned in here like swine, to wallow in the same slough. Oh, how few, who, festively sipping the rosy wine, say “mymountain stands strong,” e’er dream of such an end as this.
Look there! tread softly: angels are near us. Through the grated window the light streams faintly upon a little pallet, where, sweet as a dream of heaven, lies a sleeping babe! Over its cherub face a smile is flitting. The cell has no other occupant; angels only watch the slumbers of the prison-cradled. The place is holy. I stoop to kiss its forehead. From the crowd of women pacing up and down the guarded gallery, one glides gently to my side, saying, half proudly, half sadly, “’Tismybabe.”
“It issosweet, and pure, and holy,” said I.
The mother’s lip quivered; wiping away a tear with her apron, she said, in a choking voice:
“Ah, it is little the likes of you, ma’am, know how hard it is for us to get the honest bread!”
God be thanked, thought I, that there is one who “judgethnotas man judgeth;” who holdeth evenly the scales of justice; who weigheth against our sins thewhirlpoolof our temptations, who forgetteth never the countless struggles for the victory, ere the desponding, weary heart shuts out the light of Heaven.
Dear me! how expensive it is to be poor. Every time I go out, my best bib and tucker has to go on. If Zebedee were worth a cool million, I might wear a coal-hod on my head, if I chose, with perfect impunity. There was that old nabob’s wife at the lecture, the other night, in a dress that might have been made for Noah’s great grandmother. She can afford it! Now, if it rains knives and forks, I must sport a ten dollar hat, a forty dollar dress, and a hundred dollar shawl. If I go to a concert, I must take the highest priced seat, and ride there and back, just to let “Tom, Dick and Harry” see that I can afford it. Then, we must hire the most expensive pew in the broad-aisle of a tip-top church, and give orders to the sexton not to admit any strangers into it who look snobbish. Then my little children, Napoleon Bonaparte and Donna Maria Smith, can’t go to a public school, because, you know, we shouldn’t have to pay anything.
Then, if I go shopping, to buy a paper of needles, I have to get a little chap to bring them home, because it wouldn’t answer for me to be seen carrying a bundle through the streets. We have to keep three servants, where one might do; and Zebedee’s coats have to be sent to the tailor when they need a button sewed on, for the look of the thing.
Then, if I go to the sea-shore, in summer, I can’t take my comfort, as rich people do, in gingham dresses, loose shoes and cambric sun-bonnets. No! I have to be done up by ten o’clock in a Swiss-muslin dress, and a French cap; and my Napoleon Bonaparte and Donna Maria can’t go off the piazza, because the big rocks and little pebbles cut their toes so badly through their patent kid slippers.
Then, if Zebedee goes a fishing, he dare not put on a linen coat, for the price of his reputation. No, indeed! Why, he never goes to the barn-yard without drawing on his white kids. Then he orders the most ruinous wines at dinner, and fees those white jackets, till his purse is as empty as an egg-shell. I declare, it is abominably expensive. I don’t believe rich people have the least idea how much it costs poor people to live!
Such a crowd, such a rush, such a confusion I never expect to see again. Equestrians and pedestrians; omnibuses and carriages; soldiers, civilians anduncivil-ians; carts and curricles; city exquisites, and country nondescripts; men on the run; women tiptoe-ing, with all sails spread; papas in a putter; fat men sweltering; lean men, with tempers as sharp as their bones, ruthlessly pushing through the crowd; musicians perspiring in tuneful agony; thermometer evidently on a spree; shirt-collars prostrate; dust everywhere; police nowhere; everybody in somebody’s way;—whizz—buzz—rattle—bang—crash—smash; “Ohdear! where’s Pa?”—“Sarah Maria, take care of your flounces.”—“Get out of the way, can’t you?”—“Take your cane out of my eye, will you?”—“Mr. Jones, just see the way that baby’s best bonnet is jammed!”—“Hurry!”—“Ican’thurry; somebody has trod on my skirt, and burst off the hooks; so much for not letting me wear Bloomers! What a figure I cut, to appear before the President, and no chance to apologize, Mr. Jones!”
—Well; it’s eleven o’clock, and after several abortive attempts, we succeed in arresting an omnibus, labelled “for the Hippodrome and Crystal Palace.” Away we go—dashingthrough the crowd, regardless of limbs, vehicular or human. Broadway is lined, on either side, with a dense throng of questionable looking expectants, waiting “to see the procession.” Short people are at a discount; no chance for the poor wretches, strain and tiptoe it as they will. One tall man, who evidently knew the worth of his inches, seemed to think himself too valuable to be let out all at once; so, he elevated himself, jack-screw fashion, letting out one link of his vertebral column after another, until he towered above his neighbors like a pine tree among scrub oaks. What altitude he finally reached, I am unable to say, as he was still on his way up (like Jack’s bean-stalk) when our omnibus passed him.
“Everything comes in use once in seven years,” says the old proverb. I had often wondered of what earthly use could be the tottering brick-piles, which disfigure every block in Broadway. To-day, I was enlightened; they served admirably as points of observation for the more adventurous spectators, and each pile was covered with eager gazers. The windows overlooking Broadway were all filled with neatly dressed ladies, and as the eye swept through this magnificent thoroughfare, the rushing vehicles, the swaying, motley multitudes, the gaily dressed ladies, the waving flags and banners which floated over the more public and prominent edifices, presented an ever varying panorama, that was far from being the least attractive and impressive feature of the day. I have often thought when the people come out “to see a sight,” that they themselves are far more imposing than what they came to see.
On entering the Palace, we (my companion and I) foundthat all the most eligible seats were already occupied, and that what were left were reserved for some man of straw and his wife. It was no use to show one’s ticket. “You mustn’t sit here!”—“You mustn’t sit there!”—“You can’t stand in that place!”—“You can’t go there!”—“You can’t come here!”—and so the throng went forlornly about and around—old men and maidens—heads of families—clergymen—elegant ladies—all sorts of people—seeking places whereon they might rest, and finding none. We finally resolved on action, seized a couple of boxes of workmen’s tools, emptied the contents on the floor, and converted the boxes into comfortable seats, in the most commanding position in the eastern gallery, notwithstanding the impertinent expostulations of the rosetted officers.
Above us was the lofty stained dome, a most imposing feature;—flags of all nations waved from the latticed balconies; beneath, the jeweled arms of ladies fair gleamed and flashed in the sunlight. Directly below us was Marochetti’s equestrian statue of Washington, of colossal proportions. Years ago, dear general, you rode into my young affections on that very horse, as represented on a ninepenny printed cotton handkerchief, given me as a “reward of merit” for correctly “declining to love”—(I wish I had always declined it!) In the immediate neighborhood, our eye rested on a gigantic statue of Webster. There were his features, certainly, all correct, by line and plummet; butwhere’s the expression? It was soulless and corpse-like—it failed to magnetize me.
An hour has passed; our eyes are weary with gazing; still,no President. The singers have taken their places—the organ has emitted one or two premonitory subterranean grumbles, and the platform is beginning to fill with lesser dignitaries. The richly-cushioned Presidential chair, has been wheeled about in the most inviting locality; a huge bouquet is placed under it by way ofbait, but still the President doesn’t nibble! So we bide our time with what patience we may—though the thought of a glass of ice-water, or a cake, occasionally quenches our patience and patriotism.
Another hour has passed! Even feminine curiosity cannot exist much longer on such unsubstantial aliment as pontifical robes and empty glitter. My companion is certainly a wizard! He has conjured up some ice cream and cake:—now I shall have strength to cheer the President. Here he comes, God bless him! You won’t see a sight like that out of America. The representative of a mighty nation—one of the mightiest on earth—receiving the homage of expectant thousands, standing without “star” or “order,” or insignia of power, other than that with which the Almighty has stamped him. No “body guard,” no hedging him in from the people. It is sublime!
—Now the Bishop reads an eloquent prayer; then follows an ode, sung to the time-honored tune ofOld Hundred, echoing from hundreds of voices, through those deep naves, with such thrilling majesty that you feel as if wings were growing from out your shoulders, and youmustsoar; and suggesting the song of the redeemed, sung by thousands and tens of thousands, before the great White Throne.
Now the speeches commence—but as I see a whole armyof reporters, down below, I shall use their ears instead of my own, and make my escape while an omnibus is to be had. Some day, when the President is not present to eclipse them, I shall return and examine all thechef de’oeuvresof art here collected.
—Stay! here’s a pretty conceit I must look at, as we pass along out—a mock garden of moss and flowers, about the size of a lady’s work table, from the center of which plays a fountain of eau de cologne, beneath whose drops any lady can perfume her kerchiefen passant, a dainty invention for a boudoir. Need I say its birth-place is Paris.
There’s the statue of the Amazonian Queen, startled by the sudden spring of a tiger at her horse’s throat. Hartshorn and smelling salts,it’s alive!—no; it is lifeless bronze, but so full of vitality and expression, it makes me shiver to look at it.
Now my eye is arrested by an imposing group of Thorwalsden, “Christ and his Apostles.” It is notmyChrist. It is not He who said, “Suffer little children to come unto me.” It is not He who said to the weeping Magdalen, “Neither do I condemn thee.” It is not He who raised for the meek Mary, the dead Lazarus. It is not He who, dying, cried, “Father, forgive them; they know not what they do.” It is a form, stern, unbending, forbidding. My heart refuses its allegiance.
But I fear I am wearying the reader; so, let me close by saying, that what astonished me more than anything else, was the appearance of four of the most consummateKnavesin the world. They occupied conspicuous positions during the public exercises, and in fact, all the time I was there. Indeed, I aminformed that they have been in regular attendance ever since the Palace was opened, notwithstanding they are well known, not only to the police, but to the officers of the exhibition. It is even whispered that the latter named gentlemen connive at their attendance, unblushingly bestow many attentions upon them, and will, undoubtedly, permit them to be present during the entire exhibition. That the public may know and recognize them, I will give their names: they are the North Nave, the South Nave, the East Nave, and the West Nave!
You have a pretty, attractive child; she is warm-hearted and affectionate, but vivacious and full of life. With judicious management, and a firm, steady rein, she is a very lovable one. You take her with you on a visit, or to make a call. You are busy, talking with the friend you went to see. A gentleman comes in and throws himself indolently on the sofa. His eye falls upon little Kitty. He is just in the mood to be amused, and makes up his mind to banter her a little, for the sake of drawing her out. So he says—
“Jemima, dear—come here!”
The child blushes, and regards him as if uncertain whether he intended to address her. He repeats his request, with a laugh. She replies, “my name is Kitty, not Jemima,” which her tormentor contradicts. Kitty looks puzzled, (just as he intended she should,) but it is only for a moment. She sees he is quizzing her. Well, Miss Kitty likes a frolic, if that is what he wants; so she gives him a pert answer—he laughs uproariously, and rattles fun round her little ears like a hail storm; Kitty has plenty of answers ready for him, and he enjoys the sport amazingly.
By-and-by, he gets weary, and says,—“There—run awaynow, I’m going to read the newspaper;” but Kitty is wide awake, and has no idea of being cut short in that summary way; so she continues her Lilliputian attacks, till finally he gets up and beats a despairing retreat, muttering, “what a verydisagreeablechild.”
Mamma sees it all from a distance; she does not interfere—no—for she believes in “Children’s Rights.” Kitty was quiet, well behaved and respectful—till the visitor undertook to quiz, and tease her, for his own amusement. He wanted a frolic—and he has had it:they who play with children must take children’s play.
I never could see the reason why your smart housekeepers must, of necessity, be Xantippes. I once had the misfortune to be domesticated during the summer months with one of this genus.
I should like to have seen the adventurous spider that would have dared to ply his cunning trade in Mrs. Carrot’s premises! Nobody was allowed to sleep a wink after daylight, beneath her roof. Even her old rooster crowed one hour earlier than any of her neighbors’. “Go ahead,” was written on every broomstick in the establishment.
She gave her husband his breakfast, buttoned up his overcoat, and put him out of the front door, with his face in the direction of the store, in less time than I’ve taken to tell it. Then she snatched up the six little Carrots; scrubbed their faces, up and down, without regard to feelings or noses, till they shone like a row of milk pans.
“Clear the track” was her motto, washing and ironing days. She never drew a long breath till the wash-tubs were turned bottom upwards again, and every article of wearing apparel sprinkled, folded, ironed, and replaced on the backs of their respective owners. It gave me a stitch in the side to look at her!
As to her “cleaning days,” I never had courage to witness one. I used to lie under an apple tree in the orchard, till she was through. A whole platoon of soldiers wouldn’t have frightened me so much as that virago and her mop.
You should have seen her in her glory on “baking days;” her sleeves rolled up to her arm-pits, and a long, check apron swathed around her bolster-like figure. The great oven glowing, blazing, and sparkling, in a manner very suggestive, to a lazy sinner, like myself. The interminable rows of greased pie-plates; the pans of rough and ready gingerbread; the pots of pork and beans, in an edifying state of progression; and the immense embryo loaves of brown and wheaten bread. To my innocent inquiry, whether she thought the latter would “rise,” she set her skinny arms akimbo, marched up within kissing distance of my face, cocked her head on one side, and asked if I thought she looked“likea woman to be trifled with by a loaf of bread!” The way I settled down into my slippers, without a reply, probably convinced her that I was no longer skeptical on that point.
Saturday evening she employed in winding up everything that was unwound in the house—the old entry clock included. From that time till Monday morning, she devoted to her husband and Sabbatical exercises. All I have to say is, it is to be hoped she carried some of the fervor of her secular employments into those halcyon hours.
It is possible that every stranger may suppose, as I did, on first approaching Barnum’s Museum, that the greater part of its curiosities are on the outside, and have some fears that its internal will not equal its external appearance. But, after crossing the threshold, he will soon discover his mistake. The first idea suggested will perhaps be that the view, from the windows, of the motley, moving throng in Broadway—the rattling, thundering carts, carriages and omnibuses—the confluence of the vehicular and human tides which, from so many quarters, come pouring past the museum—is, (to adopt the language of advertisements,) “worth double the price of admission.”
The visitor’s attention will unquestionably be next arrested by the “Bearded Lady of Switzerland”—one of the most curious curiosities ever presented. A card, in pleasant juxtaposition to the “lady,” conveys the gratifying intelligence that, “Visitors are allowed to touch the beard.” Not a man in the throng lifts an investigating finger! Your penetration, Madame Clofullia, does you infinite credit. You knew well enough that your permission would be as good as a handcuff to every pair of masculine wrists in the company. For my own part, I should no more meddle with your beard, than with Mons. Clofullia’s. I see no feminity in it. Its shoe-brush aspect puts me on my decorum. I am glad you raised it, however, just to show Barnum that there is something “new under the sun,” and to convince men in general that a woman can accomplish about anything she undertakes.
I have not come to New York to stifle my inquisitiveness. How did you raise that beard? Who shaves first in the morning? you, or your husband? Do you use a Woman’s Rights razor? Which of you does thestrap-ping? How does your baby know you from its father? What do you think of us, smooth-faced sisters? Do you (between you and me) prefer to patronize dress-makers, or tailors? Do you sing tenor, or alto? Are you master, or mistress of your husband’s affections?—Well, at all events, it has been something in your neutral pocket to have “tarried at Jericho till your beard was grown.”
—What have we here? Canova’s Venus. She is exquisitely beautiful, standing there, in her sculptured graces; but where’s the Apollo? Ah, here’s a sleeping Cupid, which is better. Mischievous little imp! I’m off before you wake!—Come we now to a petrifaction of a horse and his rider, crushed in the prehensile embrace of a monstrous serpent, found in a cave where it must have lain for ages, and upon which one’s imagination might pleasantly dwell for hours.—Then, here are deputations from China-dom, in the shape of Mandarins, ladies of quality, servants, priests, &c., with their chalky complexions, huckleberry eyes and shaven polls. Here, also, is a Chinese criminal, packed into a barrel, with a hole in the lid, from whichhis head protrudes, and two at the sides, from whence his helpless paws depend. Poor Min Yung, you ought to reflect on the error of your ways, though, I confess, you’ve not much chance toroom-inate.
Here are snakes, insects, and reptiles of every description, corked down and pinned up, as all such gentry should be,—most of them, I perceive, labeled in the masculine gender! Then there’s a “bear,” the thought of whose hug makes me utter an involuntarypater noster, and cling closer to the arm of my guide. I tell you what, old Bruin, as I hope to travel, I trust you’ve left none of your cubs behind.
—Here is a group of Suliote chiefs, and in their midst Lord Byron, with his shirt upside down; and here is the veritable carriage that little Victoria used to ride in, before the crown of royalty fretted her fair, girlish temples. Poor little embryo queen! How many times since, do you suppose, she has longed to step out of those bejeweled robes, drop the burdens state imposes, and throw her weary limbs, with a child’s carelessabandon, on those silken cushions, free to laugh or cry, to sing or sigh.
—Then, here’s a collection of stuffed birds, whose rainbow plumage has darted through clustering foliage, fostered in other latitudes than ours. Nearly every species of beings that crawl, or fly, or walk, or swim, is here represented. And what hideous monsters some of them are! A “pretty kettle of fish,” some of the representatives of the finny tribe would make! I once thought I would like to be buried in the ocean, but I discarded that idea before I had been in the museum an hour. Ishouldn’t want such a “scaly set” of creatures swimming in the same pond with me.
—I had nearly forgotten to mention the “Happy Family.” Here are animals and birds which are the natural prey of each other, living together in such pleasant harmony as would make a quarrelsome person blush to look upon. A sleek rat, probably overcome by the oppressive weather, was gently dozing—a cat’s neck supporting his sleepy head in a most pillow-ly manner. Mutual vows of friendship had evidently been exchanged and rat-ified by these natural enemies. I have not time to mention in detail the many striking instances of fraternization among creatures which have been considered each other’s irreconcilable foes. Suffice it to say that Barnum and Noah are the only men on record who have brought about such a state of harmonic antagonisms, and that Barnum is the only man who has ever made money by the operation.
—Heigho! time fails us to explore all the natural wonders gathered here, from all climes, and lands, and seas, by the enterprise of perhaps the only man who could have compassed it. We turn away, leaving the greater portion unexamined, with an indistinct remembrance of what we have seen, but with a most distinct impression that the “getting up” of Creation was no ordinary affair, and wondering how it could ever have been done in six days.
Dear me, I must go shopping. Shopping is a nuisance: clerks are impertinent: feminity is victimized. Miserable day, too: mud plastered an inch thick on the side walk. Well, if we drop our skirts, gentlemen cry “Ugh!” and if we lift them from the mud, they level their eye-glasses at our ankles. The true definition of a gentleman (not found in incomplete Webster) is—a biped, who, of a muddy day, is perfectly oblivious of anything but the shop signs.
Vive la France!Ingenious Parisians, send us over your clever invention—a chain suspended from the girdle, at the end of which is a goldhandto clasp up the superfluous length of our promenading robes; thus releasing our human digits, and leaving them at liberty to wrestle with rude Boreas for the possession of the detestable little sham bonnets, which the milliners persist in hanging on the backs of our necks.
Well, here we are at Call & Ketchum’s dry-goods store. Now comes the tug of war: let Job’s mantle fall on my feminine shoulders.
“Have youbluesilk?”
Yardstick, entirely ignorant of colors, after fifteen minutes of snail-like research, hands me down a silk that is asgreenas himself.
Oh! away with these stupid masculine clerks, and give uswomen, who know by intuition what we want, to the immense saving of our lungs and leather.
Here’s Mr. Timothy Tape’s establishment.
“Have you lace collars, (in points,) Mr. Tape?”
Mr. Tape looks beneficent, and shows me someroundedcollars. I repeat my request in the most pointed manner forpointedcollars. Mr. Tape replies, with a patronizing grin:
“Points is going out, Ma’am.”
“So am I.”
Dear me, how tired my feet are! nevertheless, I must have some merino. So I open the door of Mr. Henry Humbug’s dry-goods store, which is about half a mile in length, and inquire for the desired article. Young Yardstick directs me to the counter, at theextremeend of the store. I commence my travels thitherward through a file of gaping clerks, and arrive there just ten minutes before two, by my repeater; when I am told “they are quite out of merinos; but won’t Lyonnese cloth do just as well?” pulling down a pile of the same. I rush out in a high state of frenzy, and, taking refuge in the next-door neighbor’s, inquire for some stockings. Whereupon the clerk inquires (of the wrong customer,) “What price I wish to pay?” Of course, I am not so verdant as to be caught in that trap; and, teetotally disgusted with the entire institution of shopping, I drag my weary limbs into Taylor’s new saloon, to rest.
Bless me! what a display of gilding, and girls, and gingerbread! what a heap of mirrors! There’s more than one Fanny Fern in the world. I found that out since I came in.
“What will you be pleased to have?”Julius Cæsar!look at that white-aproned waiter pulling out his snuff-box and taking a pinch of snuff right over that bowl of white sugar, that will be handed me in five minutes to sweeten my tea! And there’s another combing his hair with a pocket-comb, over that dish of oysters.
“What will I have?” Starve me, if I’ll have anything, till I can find a cleaner place than this to eat in.
Shade of old Paul Pry Boston! what do I hear? Two—(well I declare, I am not sure whether they are ladies or women; I don’t understand these New Yorkfeminities). At any rate, they wear bonnets, and are telling the waiter to bring them “a bottle of Maraschino de Zara, some sponge-cake, and some brandy drops!” See them sip the cordial in their glasses, with the gusto of an old toper. See their eyes sparkle and their cheeks flush, and just hear their emancipated little tongues go. Wonder if their husbands know that they—but of course they don’t. However, it is six of one and half a dozen of the other. They are probably turning down sherry cobblers, and eating oysters, at Florence’s; and their poor hungry children (while their parents are dainty-izing) are coming home hungry from school, to eat a fragmentary dinner, picked up at home by a lazy set of servants.
Heigho! Ladies sipping wine in a public saloon! Pilgrim rock! hide yourself under-ground! Well, it is very shocking the number of married women who pass their time ruining their health in these saloons, devouring Parisian confectionary,and tainting their children’s blood with an appetite for strong drink. Oh, what a mockery of a home must theirs be! Heaven pity the children reared there, left to the chance training of vicious hirelings.
“There is no better test of moral excellence, than the keenness of one’s sense, and the depth of one’s love, of all that is beautiful.”—Donohue.
I don’t endorse that sentiment. I am acquainted with Apollo Hyacinth. I have read his prose, and I have read his poetry; and I have cried over both, till my heart was as soft as my head, and my eyes were as red as a rabbit’s. I have listened to him in public, when he was, by turns, witty, sparkling, satirical, pathetic, till I could have added a codicil to my will, and left him all my worldly possessions; and possibly you have done the same. He has, perhaps, grasped you cordially by the hand, and, with a beaming smile, urged you, in his musical voice, to “call on him and Mrs. Hyacinth;” and you have called: but, did you ever find him “in?” You have invited him to visit you, and have received a “gratified acceptance,” in his elegant chirography; but,did he ever come? He has borrowed money of you, in the most elegant manner possible; and, as he deposited it in his beautiful purse, he has assured you, in the choicest and most happily chosen language, that he “should never forget your kindness;” but,did he ever pay?
Should you die to-morrow, Apollo would write a poeticalobituary notice of you, which would raise the price of pocket-handkerchiefs; but should your widow call on him in the course of a month, to solicit his patronage to open a school, she would be told “he was out of town,” and that it was “quite uncertain when he would return.”
Apollo has a large circle of relatives; but his “keenness of perception, and deep love, of the beautiful” are so great, that none of themexactlymeet his views. His “moral excellence,” however, does not prevent his making the most of them. He has a way of dodging them adroitly, when they call for a reciprocation, either in a business or a social way; or, if, at any time, there is a necessity for inviting them to his house, he does it when he is at hiscountryresidence, where theirgreennesswill not be out of place.
Apollo never says an uncivil thing—never; he prides himself on that, as well as on his perfect knowledge of human nature; therefore, his sins are all sins of omission. His tastes are very exquisite, and his nature peculiarly sensitive; consequently, he cannot bear trouble. He will tell you, in his elegant way, that trouble “annoys” him, that it “bores” him; in short, that it unfits him for life—for business; so, should you hear that a friend or relative of his, even a brother or a sister, was in distress, or persecuted in any manner, you could not do Apollo a greater injury (in his estimation) than to inform him of the fact. It would so grate upon his sensitive spirit,—it would so “annoy” him; whereas, did he not hear of it until the friend, or brother, or sister, were relieved or buried, he could manage the matter with his usual urbanity and withoutthe slightest draught upon his exquisitely sensitive nature, by simply writing a pathetic and elegant note, expressing the keenest regret at not having known “all about it” in time to have “flown to the assistance of his dear”——&c.
Apollo prefers friends who can stand grief and annoyance, as a rhinoceros can stand flies—friends who can bear their own troubles and all his—friends who will stand between him and everything disagreeable in life, and never ask anything in return. To such friends he clings with the most touching tenacity—as long as he can use them; but let their good name be assailed, let misfortune once overtake them, and his “moral excellence” compels him, at once, to ignore their existence, until they have been extricated from all their troubles, and it has become perfectly safe andadvantageousfor him to renew the acquaintance.
Apollo is keenly alive to the advantages of social position, (not having always enjoyed them;) and so, his Litany reads after this wise: From all questionable, unfashionable, unpresentable, and vulgar persons, Good Lord, deliver us!
“Boo-hoo!—I’ve eaten so—m-much bee-eef and t-turkey, that I can’t eat any p-p-plum p-p-pudding!”
Miserable little Pitcher! Take your fists out of your eyes, and know that thousands of grown-up pinafore graduates, are in the same Slough of Despond with your epicurean Lilliputian-ship. Having washed the platter clean of every crumb of “common fixins,” they are left with cloyed, but tantalizing desires, for the spectacle of some mocking “plum pudding.”
“Can’t eat your pudding!”
Why, you precious, graceless young glutton! you have the start of me, by many anache-r. I expect to furnish an appetite for every “plum pudding” the fates are kind enough to cook for me, from this time till Teba Napoleon writes my epitaph.
Infatuated little Pitcher! come sit on my knee, and take a little advice. Don’t you know you should only take a nibble out of each dish, and be parsimonious at that; always leaving off, be the morsel ever so dainty, before your little jacket buttons begin to tighten; while from some of the dishes, you should not even lift the cover; taking aunt Fanny’s word for it, that their spicy and stimulating contents will only give youa pain under your apron. Bless your little soul, life’s “bill of fare” can be spun out as ingeniously as a cobweb, if you only understand it; and then you can sit in the corner, in good digestive order, and catch your flies! But if you once get a surfeit of a dainty, it takes the form of a pill to you, ever after, unless the knowingcuisinierdisguise it under some novel process of sugaring; and sadder still, if you exhaust yourself in the gratification of gross appetites, you will be bereft of your faculties for enjoying the pure and heavenly delights which “Our Father” has provided as adessertfor his children.
“Whywillladies wear those ugly brown vails, which look like the burnt edge of a buckwheat cake? We vote for green ones.”—Exchange.
Mr. Critic: Why don’t you hit upon something objectionable? Such as the passion which stout ladies have for wearing immense plaids, and whole stories of flounces! Such as thin, bolster-like looking females wearing narrow stripes! Such as brunettes, gliding round like ghosts, in pale blue! Such as blondes blowing out like dandelions in bright yellow! Such as short ladies swathing up their little fat necks in voluminous folds of shawls, andshinglewomen, rejoicing in strips of mantles!
Then the gentlemen!
Your stout man is sure to get into a frock coat, with baggy trowsers; your May-pole, into a long-waisted body-coat, and “continuations” unnecessarily compact; your dark man looks like an “east wind” daguerreotyped, in a light blue neck-tie; while your pink-and-white man looks as though he wanted a pitcher of water in his face, in a salmon-colored or a black one.
Now allowmeto suggest. Your thin man should alwaysclose the thorax button of his coat, and the last two at his waistband, leaving the intermediate open, to give what he needs—more breadth of chest. Your stout man, who has almost always a nice arm and hand, should have his coat sleeve aperfect fitfrom the elbow to the wrist, buttoningthere tightly—allowing a nice strip of a white linen wristband below it.
I understand the architecture of a coat to a charm; know as quick as a flash whether ’tis all right, the minute I clap my eye on it. As to vests, I call myself a connoisseur. “Stocks” are only fit for Wall Street! Get yourself some nice silk neck-ties, and ask your wife, or somebody who knows something, to longitudinize them to your jugular. Throw your colored, embroidered, and ruffled shirt-bosoms overboard; leave your cane and cigar at home; wear a pair of neat,darkgloves; sport an immaculate pocket-handkerchief and dicky—don’t say naughty words—give us ladies theinsideof the walk—speak of every woman as you would wishyourmother oryoursister spoken of, and you’ll do!
To be able to appreciate Mr. Pease’s toils, and sacrifices, and self-denying labors at the Five Points House of Industry, one must visit the locality:—one must wind through those dirty streets and alleys, and see the wrecks of humanity that meet him at every step;—he must see children so dirty and squalid that they scarcely resemble human beings, playing in filthy gutters, and using language that would curdle his blood to hear fromchildhood’slips;—he should see men, “made in God’s own image,” brutalised beyond his power to imagine;—he should see women (girls of not more than twenty years) reeling about the pavements in a state of beastly intoxication, without a trace of feminity in their vicious faces;—he should pass the rum shops, where men and women are quarreling and fighting and swearing, while childhood listens andlearns!—he should pass the second-hand clothes cellars, where hard-featured Jewish dealers swing out faded, refuse garments, (pawned by starving virtue for bread,) to sell to the needy, half-naked emigrant for his last penny;—he should see decayed fruit and vegetables which the most ravenous swine might wellroot twice over before devouring, purchased as daily food by these poor creatures;—he should seegentlemen(?) threading these streets, not to make all this misery less, God knows, but to sever the last thread of hope to which many a tempted one is despairingly clinging.
One must see all this, before he can form a just idea of the magnitude and importance of the work that Mr. Pease has single-handed and nobly undertaken; remembering that men of wealth and influence have their own reasons for using that wealth and influence to perpetuate this modern Sodom.
One should spend an hour in Mr. Pease’s house, to see the constant drafts upon his time and strength, in the shape of calls and messages, and especially the applications for relief thathisslender purse alas! is often not able to answer;—he should see his unwearied patience and activity, admire the kind, sympathetic heart—unaffected by the toil or the frowns of temporizing theorists—ever warm, ever pitiful, giving not only “thecrumbsfrom his table,” but often his own meals to the hungry—his own wardrobe to the naked;—he should seethis, and go awayashamedto have lived so long and done so little to help the maimed, and sick, and lame, to Bethesda’s Pool.
I will relate an incident which occurred, some time since, at the House of Industry, and which serves as a fair sample of daily occurrences there.
One morning an aged lady, of respectable appearance, called at the Mission House and enquired for Mr. Pease. She was told that he was engaged, and asked if some one else would notdo as well. She said, respectfully, “No; my business is with him; I will wait, if you please, till he can see me.”
Mr. Pease immediately came in, when the old lady commenced her story:
“I came, sir,” said she, “in behalf of a poor, unfortunate woman and three little children. She is living now”—and the tears dropped over her wrinkled face—“in a bad place in Willet-street, in a basement. There are rum shops all around it, and many drunken people about the neighborhood. She has made out to pay the rent, but has had no food for the poor little children, who have subsisted on what they could manage to beg in the day time. The landlord promised, when she hired the basement, to put a lock on the door, and make it comfortable, so that ‘the Croton’ need not run in; but he got his rent and then broke his promise, and they have not seen him since.”
“Is the woman respectable?” enquired Mr. Pease.
“Yes—no—not exactly,” said the poor old lady, violently agitated. “She was well brought up. She has a good heart, sir, but a bad head, and then trouble has discouraged her. Poor Mary—yes sir, itmusthave been thetrouble—for I know herheartis good, sir. I”—tears choked the old lady’s utterance. Recovering herself; she continued:
“She had a kind husband once. He was the father of her two little girls: six years ago he died, and—the poor thing—oh, sir, you don’t know how dear she is tome!” and burying her aged face in her hands, she sobbed aloud.
Mr. Pease’s kind heart interpreted the old lady’s emotion,without the pain of an explanation. In the weeping woman before him he saw themotherof the lost one.
Yes, she was “Mary’s” mother. Poverty could not chill her love; shame and the world’s scorn had only filled her with a God-like pity.
After a brief pause, she brushed away her tears and went on:
“Yes, sir; Mary was a good child to meonce; she respected religion and religious people, and used to love to go to church, but lately, sir, God knows she has almost broke my heart. Last spring I took her home, and the three dear children; but she would not listen to me, and left without telling me where she was going. I heard that there was a poor woman living in a basement in Willet street, with three children, and my heart told me that that was my poor, lost Mary, and there I found her. But, oh, sir—oh, sir”—and she sobbed as if her heart were breaking—“sucha place!MyMary, that I used to cradle in these arms to sleep, that lisped her little evening prayer atmyknee—myMary,drunkin that terrible place!”
She was getting so agitated that Mr. Pease, wishing to turn the current of her thoughts, asked her if she herself was a member of any church. She said yes, of the —— street Baptist Church. She said she was a widow, and had had one child beside Mary—a son. And her face lighted up as she said:
“Oh sir, he was such afinelad. He did all he could to make me happy; but he thought, that if he went to California he could make money, and when he left he said ‘Cheer up, dearmother; I’ll come back and give my money all toyou, and you shall never work any more.’”
“I can see him now, sir, as he stood there, with his eye kindling. Poor lad! poor lad! He came back, but it was only to die. His last words were, ‘God will care for you, mother—I know it—when I’m gone to Heaven.’ Oh! if I could have seen my poorgirldie as he did, before she became so bad. Oh, sir,won’tyou take herhere?—won’tyou try to make her good?—can’tyou make her good, sir? Ican’tgive Mary up. Nobody cares for Mary now but me. Won’t you try, sir?”
Mr. Pease promised that he would do all he could, and sent a person out with the old lady, to visit “Mary,” and obtain particulars: he soon returned and corroborated all the old lady’s statements. Mr. Pease then took a friend and started to see what could be done.
In Willet street is a rickety old wooden building, filled to overflowing with the very refuse of humanity. The basement is lighted with two small windows half under ground; and in this wretched hole lived Mary and her children. As Mr. Pease descended the steps into the room, he heard some one say, “Here he comes, grandmother! he’s come—he’s come!”
The door was opened. On a pile of rags in the corner lay Mary, “my Mary,” as the old lady tearfully called her.
God of mercy! what a wreck of beautiful womanhood! Her large blue eyes glared with maniac wildness, under the influence of intoxication. Long waves of auburn hair fell, in tangled masses, over a form wasted, yet beautiful in its graceful outlines.
Poor, lost Mary!
“Sucha place!” as her mother had, weeping, said. Not a table, or chair, or bedstead, or article of furniture in it, of any description. On the mantle-piece stood a beer-bottle with a half burnt candle in its nose. A few broken, dirty dishes stood upon the shelf, and a quantity of filthy rags lay scattered round the floor.
The grandmother was holding by the hand a sweet child of eight years, with large, bright eyes, and auburn hair (like poor Mary’s) falling about her neck. An older girl of twelve, with a sweet, Madonna face, that seemed to light up eventhatwretched place with a beam of Heaven, stood near, bearing in her arms a babe of sixteen months, which was not so large as one of eight months should have been. Its little hands looked like bird’s claws, and its little bones seemed almost piercing the skin.
The old lady went up to her daughter, saying, “Mary, dear, this is the gentleman who is willing to take you to his house, if you will try to be good.”
“Get out of the room, you old hypocrite,” snarled the intoxicated woman, “or I’ll——(and she clutched a hatchet beside her)—I’ll show you! You are the worst old woman I ever knew, except the one you brought in here the other day, and she is a fiend outright. Talk tomeabout beinggood!—ha—ha”—and she laughed an idiot laugh.
“Mother,” said the eldest child, sweetly laying her little hand upon her arm,—“dearmother, don’t, please don’t hurt grandmother. She is good and kind to us; she only wants to get you out of this bad place, where you will be treated kindly.”
“Yes, dearmother,”chimed in the younger sister, bending her little curly head over her, “mother, you said once youwouldgo. Don’t keep us here any longer, mother. We are cold and hungry. Please get up and take us away; we are afraid to stay here, mother, dear.”
“Yes, Mary,” said the old lady, handing her down a faded, ragged gown, “here is your dress; put it on, wont you!”
Mary raised herself on the pile of rags on which she was lying, and pushing the eldest girl across the room, screamed out, “Get away, you impudent little thing! you are just like your old grandmother. I tell youall,” said she, raising herself on one elbow, and tossing back her auburn hair from her broad, white forehead, “I tell you all, Ineverwill go from here,never! Ilovethis place. So many fine people come here, and we have such good times. There is a gentleman who takes care of me. He brought me some candles, last night, and he says that I shan’t want for anything, if I will only get rid of these troublesome children—my husband’schildren.” And she hid her face in her hands and laughed convulsively.
“You may havethem,” she continued, “just as soon as you like—baby and all! but I never will go from this place. Iloveit. A great many fine people come here to see me.”
The poor old lady wrung her hands and wept, while the children clung round their grandmother, with half-averted faces, trembling and silent.
Mr. Pease said to her, “Mary, you may either go with me,or I’ll send for an officer and have you carried to the station-house. Which will you do?”
Mary cursed and raved, but finally put on the dress the old lady handed her, and consented to go with them. A carriage was soon procured, and Mary helped inside—Mr. Pease lifting in the baby and the two little girls, and away they started for the Five Points House of Industry.
“Oh, mother!” exclaimed the younger of the girls, “how very pleasant it is to ride in this nice carriage, and to get away from that dirty place; we shall be so happy now, mother; and Edith and the baby too: see, he is laughing: he likes to ride. You will love sister Edith and baby, and me,now, wont you, dear mother? and you wont frighten us with the hatchet any more, or hurt dear grandmother, will you?”
Arriving at Mr. Pease’s house, the delight of the little creatures was unbounded. They caught hold of their mother’s faded dress, saying, “Didn’t wetellyou, mother, that you would have a pleasant home here? Only see that nice garden! you didn’t have a garden in Willet Street, mother!”
Reader, would you know that mother’s after history?
Another “Mary” hath “bathed the Saviour’s feet” with her tears, and wiped them with the hairs of her head. Her name is no longer written MaryMagdalena. In the virtuous home of her aged mother, she sits clothed in her right mind, “and her children rise up and call herblessed.”