A time ago, no matter how long precisely, I, an old man, removed from
the country to the city, having become unexpected heir to a great old
house in a narrow street of one of the lower wards once the haunt of
style and fashion, full of gay parlours and bridal chambers; but now,
for the most part, transformed into counting-rooms and ware-houses.
There bales and boxes usurp the place of sofas; day-books and ledgers
are spread where once the delicious breakfast toast was buttered. In
those old wards the glorious old soft-waffle days are over.
Nevertheless, in this old house of mine, so strangely spared, some
monument of departed days survived. Nor was this the only one. Amidst
the warehouse ranges some few other dwellings likewise stood. The
street’s transmutation was not yet complete. Like those old English
friars and nuns, long haunting the ruins of their retreats after they
had been despoiled, so some few strange old gentlemen and ladies still
lingered in the neighbourhood, and would not, could not, might not quit
it. And I thought that when, one spring, emerging from my
white-blossoming orchard, my own white hairs and white ivory-headed cane
were added to their loitering census, that those poor old souls insanely
fancied the ward was looking up--the tide of fashion setting back again.
For many years the old house had been unoccupied by an owner; those into
whose hands it from time to time had passed having let it out to various
shifting tenants; decayed old townspeople, mysterious recluses, or
transient, ambiguous-looking foreigners.
While from certain cheap furbishings to which the exterior had been
subjected, such as removing a fine old pulpit-like porch crowning the
summit of six lofty steps, and set off with a broad-brimmed
sounding-board over-shadowing the whole, as well as replacing the
original heavy window shutters (each pierced with a crescent in the
upper panel to admit an Oriental and moony light into the otherwise
shut-up rooms of a sultry morning in July) with frippery Venetian
blinds; while, I repeat, the front of the house hereby presented an
incongruous aspect, as if the graft of modernness had not taken in its
ancient stock; still, however it might fare without, within little or
nothing had been altered. The cellars were full of great grim, arched
bins of blackened brick, looking like the ancient tombs of Templars,
while overhead were shown the first floor timbers, huge, square, and
massive, all red oak, and through long eld, of a rich and Indian colour.
So large were those timbers, and so thickly ranked, that to walk in
those capacious cellars was much like walking along a line-of-battle
ship’s gun-deck.
All the rooms in each story remained just as they stood ninety years
ago, with all their heavy-moulded, wooden cornices, panelled wainscots,
and carved and inaccessible mantels of queer horticultural and
zoological devices. Dim with longevity, the very covering of the walls
still preserved the patterns of the times of Louis XVI. In the largest
parlour (the drawing-room, my daughters called it, in distinction from
two smaller parlours, though I did not think the distinction
indispensable) the paper-hangings were in the most gaudy style.
Instantly we knew such paper could only have come from Paris--genuine
Versailles paper--the sort of paper that might have hung in Marie
Antoinette’s boudoir. It was of great diamond lozenges, divided by
massive festoons of roses (onions, Biddy the girl said they were, but my
wife soon changed Biddy’s mind on that head); and in those lozenges, one
and all, as in an over-arboured garden-cage, sat a grand series of
gorgeous illustrations of the natural history of the most imposing
Parisian-looking birds--parrots, macaws, and peacocks, but mostly
peacocks. Real Prince Esterhazies of birds; all rubies, diamonds, and
Orders of the Golden Fleece. But, alas! the north side of this old
apartment presented a strange look; half mossy and half mildew;
something as ancient forest trees on their north sides, to which
particular side the moss most clings, and where, they say, internal
decay first strikes. In short, the original resplendence of the peacocks
had been sadly dimmed on that north side of the room, owing to a small
leak in the eaves, from which the rain had slowly trickled its way down
the wall, clean down to the first floor. This leak the irreverent
tenants, at that period occupying the premises, did not see fit to stop,
or rather, did not think it worth their while, seeing that they only
kept their fuel and dried their clothes in the parlour of the peacocks.
Hence many of the once glowing birds seemed as if they had their
princely plumage bedraggled in a dusty shower. Most mournfully their
starry trains were blurred. Yet so patiently and so pleasantly, nay,
here and there so ruddily did they seem to bide their bitter doom, so
much of real elegance still lingered in their shapes, and so full, too,
seemed they of a sweet, engaging pensiveness, meditating all day long,
for years and years, among their faded bowers, that though my family
repeatedly adjured me (especially my wife, who, I fear, was too young
for me) to destroy the whole hen-roost, as Biddy called it, and cover
the walls with a beautiful, nice, genteel, cream-coloured paper, despite
all entreaties, I could not be prevailed upon, however submissive in
other things.
But chiefly would I permit no violation of the old parlour of the
peacocks or room of roses (I call it by both names), on account of its
long association in my mind with one of the original proprietors of the
mansion--the gentle Jimmy Rose.
Poor Jimmy Rose!
He was among my earliest acquaintances. It is not many years since he
died; and I and two other tottering old fellows took hack, and in sole
procession followed him to his grave.
Jimmy was born a man of moderate fortune. In his prime he had an
uncommonly handsome person; large and manly, with bright eyes of blue,
brown curling hair, and cheeks that seemed painted with carmine; but it
was health’s genuine bloom, deepened by the joy of life. He was by
nature a great ladies’ man, and like most deep adorers of the sex, never
tied up his freedom of general worship by making one wilful sacrifice of
himself at the altar.
Adding to his fortune by a large and princely business, something like
that of the great Florentine trader, Cosmo the Magnificent, he was
enabled to entertain on a grand scale. For a long time his dinners,
suppers, and balls were not to be surpassed by any given in the
party-giving city of New York. His uncommon cheeriness, the splendour of
his dress, his sparkling wit, radiant chandeliers, infinite fund of
small talk, French furniture, glowing welcomes to his guests, his
bounteous heart and board, his noble graces and his glorious wine, what
wonder if all these drew crowds to Jimmy’s hospitable abode? In the
winter assemblies he figured first on the manager’s list. James Rose,
Esq., too, was the man to be found foremost in all presentations of
plate to highly successful actors at the Park, or of swords and guns to
highly successful generals in the field. Often, also, was he chosen to
present the gift on account of his fine gift of finely saying fine
things.
‘Sir,’ said he, in a great drawing-room in Broadway, as he extended
toward General G---- a brace of pistols set with turquoise. ‘Sir,’ said
Jimmy, with a Castilian flourish and a rosy smile, ‘there would have
been more turquoise here set, had the names of your glorious victories
left room.’
Ah, Jimmy, Jimmy! Thou didst excel in compliments. But it was inwrought
with thy inmost texture to be affluent in all things which give
pleasure. And who shall reproach thee with borrowed wit on this
occasion, though borrowed indeed it was? Plagiarise otherwise as they
may, not often are the men of this world plagiarists in praise.
But times changed. Time, true plagiarist of the seasons.
Sudden and terrible reverses in business were made mortal by mad
prodigality on all hands. When his affairs came to be scrutinised, it
was found that Jimmy could not pay more than fifteen shillings in the
pound. And yet in time the deficiency might have been made up--of
course, leaving Jimmy penniless--had it not been that in one winter gale
two vessels of his from China perished off Sandy Hook; perished at the
threshold of their port.
Jimmy was a ruined man.
It was years ago. At that period I resided in the country, but happened
to be in the city on one of my annual visits. It was but four or five
days since seeing Jimmy at his house the centre of all eyes, and hearing
him at the close of the entertainment toasted by a brocaded lady, in
these well-remembered words: ‘Our noble host; the bloom on his cheek,
may it last long as the bloom in his heart!’ And they, the sweet ladies
and gentlemen there, they drank that toast so gaily and frankly off; and
Jimmy, such a kind, proud, grateful tear stood in his honest eye,
angelically glancing round at the sparkling faces, and equally
sparkling, and equally feeling, decanters.
Ah! poor, poor Jimmy--God guard us all--poor Jimmy Rose!
Well, it was but four or five days after this that I heard a clap of
thunder--no, a clap of bad news. I was crossing the Bowling Green in a
snowstorm not far from Jimmy’s house on the Battery, when I saw a
gentleman come sauntering along, whom I remembered at Jimmy’s table as
having been the first to spring to his feet in eager response to the
lady’s toast. Not more brimming the wine in his lifted glass than the
moisture in his eye on that happy occasion.
Well, this good gentleman came sailing across the Bowling Green,
swinging a silver-headed ratan; seeing me, he paused, ‘Ah, lad, that was
rare wine Jimmy gave us the other night. Shan’t get any more, though.
Heard the news? Jimmy’s burst. Clean smash, I assure you. Come along
down to the Coffee-house and I’ll tell you more. And if you say so,
we’ll arrange over a bottle of claret for a sleighing party to Cato’s
to-night. Come along.’
‘Thank you,’ said I, ‘I--I--I am engaged.’
Straight as an arrow I went to Jimmy’s. Upon inquiring for him, the man
at the door told me that his master was not in; nor did he know where he
was; nor had his master been in the house for forty-eight hours.
Walking up Broadway again, I questioned passing acquaintances; but
though each man verified the report, no man could tell where Jimmy was,
and no one seemed to care, until I encountered a merchant, who hinted
that probably Jimmy, having scraped up from the wreck a snug lump of
coin, had prudently betaken himself off to parts unknown. The next man I
saw, a great nabob he was too, foamed at the mouth when I mentioned
Jimmy’s name. ‘Rascal; regular scamp, sir, is Jimmy Rose! But there are
keen fellows after him.’ I afterward heard that this indignant gentleman
had lost the sum of seventy-five dollars and seventy-five cents
indirectly through Jimmy’s failure. And yet I dare say the share of the
dinners he had eaten at Jimmy’s might more than have balanced that sum,
considering that he was something of a wine-bibber, and such wines as
Jimmy imported cost a plum or two. Indeed, now that I bethink me, I
recall how I had more than once observed this same middle-aged
gentleman, and how that toward the close of one of Jimmy’s dinners he
would sit at the table pretending to be earnestly talking with beaming
Jimmy, but all the while, with a half-furtive sort of tremulous
eagerness and hastiness, pour down glass after glass of noble wine, as
if now, while Jimmy’s bounteous sun was at meridian, was the time to
make his selfish hay.
At last I met a person famed for his peculiar knowledge of whatever was
secret or withdrawn in the histories and habits of noted people. When I
inquired of this person where Jimmy could possibly be, he took me close
to Trinity Church rail, out of the jostling of the crowd, and whispered
me, that Jimmy had the evening before entered an old house of his
(Jimmy’s) in C---- Street, which old house had been for a time
untenanted. The inference seemed to be that perhaps Jimmy might be
lurking there now. So getting the precise locality, I bent my steps in
that direction, and at last halted before the house containing the room
of roses. The shutters were closed, and cobwebs were spun in their
crescents. The whole place had a dreary, deserted air. The snow lay
unswept, drifted in one billowy heap against the porch, no footprint
tracking it. Whoever was within, surely that lonely man was an abandoned
one. Few or no people were in the street; for even at that period the
fashion of the street had departed from it, while trade had not as yet
occupied what its rival had renounced.
Looking up and down the sidewalk a moment, I softly knocked at the door.
No response. I knocked again, and louder. No one came. I knocked and
rung both; still without effect. In despair I was going to quit the
spot, when, as a last resource, I gave a prolonged summons, with my
utmost strength, upon the heavy knocker, and then again stood still;
while from various strange old windows up and down the street, various
strange old heads were thrust out in wonder at so clamorous a stranger.
As if now frightened from its silence, a hollow, husky voice addressed
me through the keyhole.
‘Who are you?’ it said.
‘A friend.’
‘Then shall you not come in,’ replied the voice, more hollowly than
before.
Great Heaven! this is not Jimmy Rose, thought I, starting. This is the
wrong house. I have been misdirected. But still, to make all sure, I
spoke again.
‘Is James Rose within there?’
No reply.