SIGNS OF THE TIMES.
E-q-u-i—equi,D-O-M-E—dome, “Equidome.” Betty, hand me my dictionary.
Well, now, who would have believed that I, Fanny Fern, would have tripped over a “stable?” That all comes of being “raised” where people persist in calling things by their right names. I’m very certain that it is useless for me to try to circumnavigate the globe on stilts. There’s the “Hippodrome!” I had but just digested that humbug: my tongue kinked all up trying to pronounce it; and then I couldn’t find out the meaning of it; for Webster didn’t inform me that it was a place where vicious horses broke the necks of vicious young girls for the amusement of vicious spectators.
“Jim Brown!” What a relief. I can understand that. I never saw Jim, but I’m positively certain that he’s a monosyllable on legs—crisp as a cucumber. Ah! here are some more suggestive signs.
“Robert Link—Bird Fancier.” I suggest that it be changed to Bob-o’ Link; in which opinion I shall probably be backed up by all musical people.
Here we are in Broadway junior, alias the “Bowery.” I don’t see but the silks, and satins, and dry-goods generally, are quite equal to those in Broadway; but, of course, Fashion turns her back upon them, for they are only half the price.
What have we here, in this shop window? What are all those silks, and delaines, and calicoes, ticketed up that way for?—“Superb,” “Tasty,” “Beautiful,” “Desirable,” “Cheap for 1s.,” “Modest,” “Unique,” “Genteel,” “Grand,” “Gay!” It is very evident that Mr. Yardstick takes all women for fools, or else he has had a narrow escape from being one himself.There’s a poor, distracted gentleman in a milliner’s shop, trying to select a bonnet for his spouse. What anon compos! See him poise the airy nothings on his great clumsy hands! He is about as good a judge of bonnets as I am of patent ploughs. See him turn, in despairing bewilderment, from blue to pink, from pink to green, from green to crimson, from crimson to yellow. The little witch of a milliner sees his indecision, and resolves to make acoup d’état; so, perching one of the bonnets (blue as her eyes) on her rosy little face, she walks up sufficiently near to give him a magnetic shiver, and holding the strings coquettishly under her pretty little chin, says:
“Now, I’m sure, you can’t saythatisn’t pretty!”
Of course he can’t!
So, the bonnet is bought and band-boxed, and Jonathan (who is sold with the bonnet) takes it home to his wife, whose black face looks in it like an overcharged thunder-cloud set in a silver lining.
Saturday evening is a busy time in the Bowery. So many little things wanted at the close of the week. A pair of new shoes for Robert, a tippet for Sally, a pair of gloves for Johnny, and a stick of candy to bribe the baby to keep the peace while mamma goes to “meetin’” on Sunday. What a heap of people! What a job it must be to take the census in New York. Servant girls and their beaux, country folks and city folks, big boys and little boys, ladies and women, puppies and men! There’s a poor labouring man, with his market basket on one arm and his wife on the other. He knows that he can get his Sunday dinner cheaper by purchasing it late on Saturday night, when the butchers are not quite sure that their stock will “keep” till Monday. And then it is quite a treat for his wife, when little Johnny is asleep, to get out to catch a bit of fresh air, and a sight of the pretty things in the shop windows, even if she cannot have them; but the little feminine diplomatist knows that husbands always feel clever of a Saturday night, and that then’s the time “just to stop and look” at a new ribbon or collar.
See that party of country folks, going to the “National” to see“Uncle Tom.” Those pests, the bouquet sellers, are offering them their stereotyped, cabbage-looking bunches of flowers with,
“Please buy one for your lady, sir.”
Jonathan don’t understand dodging such appeals; beside, he would scorn to begrudge a “quarter” forhis lady! So he buys the nuisance, and scraping out his hind foot, presents it, with a bow, to Araminta, who “walks on thrones” the remainder of the evening.
There’s a hand-organ, and a poor, tired little girl, sleepily playing the tambourine. All the little ragged urchins in the neighbourhood are grouped on that door-step, listening. The connoisseur might criticise the performance, but no CathedralTe Deumcould be grander to that unsophisticated little audience. There is one little girl who, spite of her rags, is beautiful enough for a seraph.Poor and beautiful!God help her.