if Angels have wings they are also provided with tails--hence this
last item); thought it extremely probable. Gabriel mounted one end
of the City Hall steps, and after a preliminary overture on his horn,
and a slight skirmish among the faithful, resulting in four black
eyes, a damaged nose, and a broken leg, the religious services
commenced--(Damphool was entirely carried away by his sympathies for
this last martyr, but soon discovered that the fractured member was
"purely vegetable," as the patent medicine men say, and the injury was
speedily repaired by means of a few shingle nails and a piece of
clapboard).
Gabriel went in to win, but, spite of the sanctity of his name and the
holiness of his aforesaid breeches, he was not permitted a clear field.
A female, with bosom undressed in the latest fashion; petticoats
(Damphool says skirticoats) not immaculate; stockings, through the
texture of which her delicate ancles were plainly visible to the naked
eye; whose hair resembled molasses candy; with a nose symmetrical as an
overgrown sweet potatoe, and in hue not unlike the martyred lobster; and
whose teeth reminded me forcibly of the "crags and peaks" mentioned by
the man in the play, took up her station on the other end of the steps.
She, like Gabe, went in for giving the church of Rome "Jesse," but
otherwise did not agree with him. Did not seem willing to go to heaven
by his conveyance, but claimed to have discovered some kind of a
northwest passage--some exclusive path "cross lots;" and she advocated
her right of way with all her woman's power of tongue--in fact, they
agreed only tolerably--"Arcades ambo"--both celestials, but of a
different breed--(B. D. says that some time since they joined issue on
the devil's head, one asserting that he has horns, and the other
maintaining that his brimstone friend is a muley)--but they both pitched
into the Pope, abused all foreigners, denounced the church of Rome,
walked into the affections of the Catholics generally--talked learnedly
of priests, inquisitions, dungeons, thumbscrews, martyrs, convents,
nunneries, and other luxuries, as being the only legitimate offspring of
the mother of abominations, the scarlet woman; and, in fact, seemed to
be having the field entirely to themselves, when lo! a change came o'er
the spirit of the gospel show, for in the midst of the crowd suddenly
appeared a third combatant--his classic dress and intellectual face gave
unmistakable evidence that he was from the "gim of the ocean." With the
dignified and majestic bearing peculiar to his countrymen, he slowly
mounted the steps, and took a position directly between the two, and in
a voice strongly tinctured with the "sweet brogue," announced himself as
a champion of that much slandered gentleman, the Pope of Rome.
At this astounding impudence, the woman for a single instant held her
peace. Gabe was so taken aback that he seemed about to collapse, but
rallied, played an "ad libitum" interlude on the tin horn, and all hands
"pitched in."
Gabriel commenced the onset by asserting that the Pope is not strictly
a bachelor, but has seven white wives in his parlor, thirteen ditto
bound in law calf in the library, a hundred and forty-one golden-haired
damsels in his private apartments, and a perfect harem of jetty beauties
in the coal-hole.
Petticoats followed, by saying that he breakfasts on Protestant babies;
drinks whiskey punch out of a Protestant clergyman's skull; has an
abducted Protestant virgin to black his boots; fifty-seven Protestant
widows to dig his potatoes and hoe corn; and that he rolls ten-pins
every afternoon with the heads of Protestant orphan children.
Irishman indignantly denied all--said the country is going to the old
Knick, and some fine morning we shall wake up, and find that the Pope,
unable longer to endure our perverseness, has sunk us all forty miles
deeper than ancient Sodom; said that his Holiness can send us all to
perdition by one wink of his left eye; that he is the head of the Church
on Earth; has all power to save or otherwise; could get us all out of
Purgatory, and send us all "kitin' into Heaven," by wagging his little
finger; that he could, like a Joshua No. 2, make the sun and moon stand
still; make the planets dance an astronomical rigadoon; cause the hills
and mountains to execute a mighty geological jig, while old ocean should
beat the time against the blue vault of Heaven and applauding Angels
encore the huge saltations.
Gabe said he didn't believe the yarn. Petticoats remarked something
about the Star Spangled Banner being always right side up.
Irishman proceeded to describe the future home of the happy in another
world, as a place where there shall be plenty of potatoes, no end of
shillelahs, oceans of genuine whiskey; and where no Know-Nothing Yankee
shall be allowed to come and kick up a plug muss.
At the word Know-Nothing, there was a great sensation. Symptoms of a
free fight rapidly developed into an uncivil war. Petticoats got mixed
up with the crowd, and presently emerged rather the worse for wear,
barefooted, bareheaded, hair down, nose injured by collision, eye in
mourning, mouth bloody, and her whole appearance reminding me of "a
goose or goslin--stuffed." (I forgot who penned this apposite quotation,
and asked Bull Dogge, who, being excited by the fray, angrily asserted
that it is by "Nero or some other old fogy"--is it?)
Irishman was taken away by seven policemen, on his national carriage,
a wheelbarrow. Gabriel came out unhurt, save that his elegant features
were somewhat marred by the finger nails of Petticoats. Perceiving that
the fun was over, I turned to go, leaving the self-elected Angel
Gabriel, straddle of a hydrant, edifying the passers-by, by alternately
sounding notes of victory upon his horn, and crowing like an overgrown
Shanghae.
XIV.
Disappointed Love.
Although in the course of my western peregrinations I had frequently met
with attractive-looking damsels, there was always some blemish on their
personal beauty, which though perhaps slight in many cases, made their
charms fall short of that exalted standard desirable in the fairer part
of mankind. Being unusually fastidious in my taste it is not to be
wondered at, that previous to last Wednesday night, I had never been in
love.
Save an occasional fit of cholera-morbus, I had never experienced
anything even remotely approaching the tender passion. But on the
evening of the eventful Wednesday, Sandie Goatie invited me to go with
him and see his sister.
Now my friend Sandie is not a scholarly person, and has never received
that questionable blessing, a college education. He always says
"cod-fish" instead of "bona fide," and calls "tempus fugit" "pork and
beans;" the only "Jupiter" he knows is a sable gentleman, and his only
idea of "Venus," is a colored washerwoman, who in early life got up his
hebdomadal linen.
But his sister is eminently classic; she stoops fashionably, with the
"Grecian bend"--has a Roman nose, and her name is Calanthe Maria.
I went to see that sister--I _saw_ that sister--I surrendered.
That seraphic sister--to attempt a description of her beauty, would be
insanity itself. I will only mention her hair, and when I have said that
this was sublime and divine, I wish it distinctly understood that I use
these feeble terms, because the poverty of our language does not afford
adjectives of adequate force.
The instant I saw her, my presence of mind deserted me. I felt
bashful--I was conscious that I looked like a fool in the face, and my
apparel, (on which I had prided myself), seemed as unworthy to be seen
in her presence, as if it had been bought second-hand in Chatham street.
Beneath the glance of her brilliant eyes, my feet seemed to grow too
short, and my legs too long--my coat too big, and my collar limpsy, and
I discovered a grease spot on my vest. Never had I been so shamefaced in
the feminine presence before, and my bashfulness only temporarily
deserted me, when, after much tribulation, I achieved a seat on a clumsy
looking foot-stool, which I understood was called an "Ottoman." Whether
or not it had any connection with Turks, turkeys, and Thanksgiving, I
failed to discover.
Left alone a short time, I had leisure to recover myself, and to note
the individual charms of my fair enslaver. A partial inventory of her
visible apparel is ineffaceably stamped upon my mind.
A silk dress, of a pattern which seemed to have been designed for a
gigantic checker-board, made with a train to do scavenger duty, and
short sleeves, with lace curtains underneath--her neck and shoulders
hidden from view by a thin veil of transparent lace, of a pattern
designedly made to attract attention--but particulars are omitted.
Suffice it to say, that she was dressed as the prevailing fashion seems
to demand.
I essayed to speak to her, but my timidity returned upon me with double
force. Mustered courage at length and asked her to sing, and stepped on
her toes while turning over her music--praised everything in the wrong
place--when she sung a false note, I exclaimed "delicious." She made a
two-handed discord, which I pronounced "enchanting," and when at last,
from excess of agitation, she broke flat down, I enthusiastically
declared that I was "never more delighted in the whole course of my
life."
Asked her to play a waltz, and handed her a choir-book--opened at
"Corinth" and "Silver street"--found I was wrong, and turned over the
leaf to "Sinners turn, why will ye die?"--discovered that all was not
right yet, and then requested her to play some sacred music, and in my
anxiety to get the right notes this time, placed before her the "Jenny
Lind Polka," which she at once began to play--I attempting to sing the
words of "Old Hundred," which didn't seem to jibe.
We tried to dance, but my confusion still continued. I "chassezed"
myself across a table, and into a music rack--"promenaded" my partner
over the stove--"balanced" her into a side-board, and eventually
attempted to seat her in a mirror, where I saw a sofa.
Then I essayed conversation, and I am confident I talked the most
absurd nonsense for the rest of my call--distinctly remember speaking of
Noah Webster's beautiful play of "Evangeline"--eulogising Shakspeare's
"Robinson Crusoe"--Thackeray's generalship at Waterloo--attempting to
explain the difficulties which attended Henry Ward Beecher's attempts to
get his Opera of "Bohemian Girl" before the public--telling who had the
blackest eye when President Pierce and Joan of Arc fought their
celebrated prize fight in the Crystal Palace in New York in 1793--and at
last, breaking down in trying to explain why Admiral Elihu Burritt, and
his right hand man Xerxes the Great, did not succeed in taking
Sebastopol in a month, according to contract.
When I bid her "good night," she took my hand and set me crazy by the
touch of her fairy, taper fingers.
I dreamed all night about Calanthe--got up in the morning, called the
waiter "Calanthe," and said "my darling" to him as he handed me my
coffee--gave my tailor an order for a new coat and two pairs of
pantaloons, and told him to charge them to "Calanthe"--got a box of
cigars and a demijohn of Scotch whiskey, and signed the drayman's
receipt "Calanthe"--all the signs read "Calanthe"--every street was
"Calanthe" street--all the stages belonged to the "Calanthe" line, and
were going to "Calanthe" ferry--the ship "Calanthe" had arrived, the
steamboat "Calanthe" had burst her boiler, and the brig "Calanthe" been
seen bottom upward with her rudder gone. I saw, heard, read, dreamed,
thought, and talked nothing but "Calanthe," and cannibal that I am, I
verily believe I ate nothing but "Calanthe" for a month.
The day after I saw her first I felt so exceedingly amiable that I
bought something of every pedler who came into the store--laid in a
stock of matches, pencils, shoe-brushes, suspenders, bootjacks, and
blacking, which will last me a short lifetime--bought so much candy that
the office-boy had the colic every afternoon for a week--called the
applewoman "my own sweet love," and said "thank you, darling," when she
gave me pewter dimes in change.
Wrote spasmodic poetry about Calanthe's hair--lines to her raven
tresses--stanzas to her locks of jet--odes to her ebon ringlets--verses
to her sable curls--rhymes to her coal-black hair, and commenced a poem
in 17 cantos, to her ebony-topped head, but on reflection I was led to
doubt the propriety of the comparison.
Called to see her every evening--substantial victuals didn't agree with
me--a kind word from her was a good breakfast--a tender glance has
served me for a dinner many a time, and once when she pressed my hand I
couldn't eat anything for a fortnight but oranges, cream-candy, and
vanilla-beans.
We went to the theatre, endured the negro minstrels, and braved the
horrors of a second-rate Italian Opera Company--in fact, everywhere,
where there was anything to be seen or heard, there were Calanthe Maria,
and her devoted Philander.
For a month I forgot my debts, neglected business, ignored entirely this
mundane sphere, and lived in a rainbow-colored aerial castle, of the
most elegant finish--surrounded by roses, attended by cupids, and just
big enough for Calanthe Maria and the subscriber.
In that happy place there were no duns, no tailors' bills, no trouble,
no debts, no getting up early cold mornings, no tight boots, no bad
cigars: nothing but love, luxury, and Calanthe Maria.
Came down occasionally out of my airy mansion, to speak a few words of
compassion to my companions in the office, who hadn't got any Calanthe,
but I went right back again as quick as I could to that rose-colored
dream-land where love and Calanthe were "boss and all hands."
At last, one fatal evening I was undeceived.
We were waltzing, and through some clumsiness on my part, her hair
caught in a gas-fixture--some mysterious string broke, and those glossy
ringlets, the object of my adoration, _came off_, leaving her head bald
as a brickbat. Relating this scrape of the locks to a friend, he
informed me that the rest of her charms would not bear minute
inspection, for she wore false teeth, and bought her complexion at
Phalon's; that her graceful form was the result of a skilful combination
of cotton and whalebone.
This was too much. While I thought Calanthe a woman, I loved her, but
the discovery of the _fishy_ element excited a prejudice--as a _female_,
she had my affection, and I contemplated matrimony--as a land mermaid, I
had no desire to swindle Barnum and become her proprietor.
Coming as I did, from a section of the country where they have _human_
women, and where they don't attempt to deceive masculine mankind with
French millinery strategy, I was unprepared for counterfeits, and had
been easily deluded by a spurious article. But I find that in New York,
perambulating bundles of dry goods not unfrequently pass current as
women--and the milliners now put their eccentric inventions upon these
locomotive shams, to the great neglect of those revolving waxen ladies
who used to perform their perpetual gyrations in the show-windows.
As an advertising medium, they possess facilities for publicity beyond
any of the newspapers, having a city circulation, which is unattainable
by anything dumb and unpetticoated.
The great staple of the south has not only "made" some of our first men,
but has been discovered to enter largely into the composition of many of
our first ladies.
My madness was now over--the intoxication of love was dissipated, and I
was once more able to get about my business without having a feminine
name constantly present to my eyes. The stages, the dry-goods' boxes,
the streets and signs, were once more lettered in sensible characters. I
was guilty of no more poetry, went to no more operas--in short,
exhibited no longer any of the signs of insanity, but relapsed at once
into my former unpoetical condition--the spell was broken--the blind
fiend was exorcised--reason got back to her old bunk, and "Richard was
himself again."
The difference in my mental condition occasioned my landlady
considerable alarm; while I had lived on love, and paid five dollars a
week for the privilege of sitting down at table only, she had considered
me a profitable boarder; but the disappearance of beef and substantials
generally, consequent upon my returning appetite, sensibly diminish her
esteem for me. I fancy I can perceive a change in her treatment, for she
sets the bread and butter as far away from me as possible.
P. S.--She has raised my board to eight dollars a week, and with a
consciousness that I deserve it, I submit.
XV.
Modern Patent Piety--Church-Going in the City
Persons from the rural districts--who are visiting the city for the
first time, and who have all their lives been accustomed to no more
pretentious religious edifices than the old fashioned country
meeting-house, with a "steeple," either of the extinguisher or
pepper-castor pattern; with great square hot-house windows, built
expressly to concentrate and reflect upon the innocent congregation the
hottest rays of the sun, as if religion was a green-house plant, and
would only bloom beneath a forced and artificial heat--usually expend no
small portion of their simple wonder upon the magnificent temples of the
town, which aspiring congregations erect ostensibly for the worship of
the manger-cradled Saviour.
It usually too requires some considerable time for such a
behind-the-times person to lay aside all his antiquated notions of
religion, in which love, charity, and good will to men were essential
elements, but which primitive idea of Christianity has, in the more
enlightened city precincts, been long since exploded, and adopt the more
convenient and showy piety which fashionable city people wear on
Sundays--the constituent parts of which are too often only ostentation
and vanity, veneered with a thin shell of decency and decorum. Such
church-going people are remarkably easy on the Bible--most of the
doctrines therein inculcated having been long since explained away by
their three-thousand-dollar clergyman, who measures his people for their
religion, and fits them with as much nicety as their tailors or
dressmakers do in the case of more visible wardrobe. One or two Sundays
after my first appearance in this town of patent Christianity, I
attended service for the first time.
Having seen the opera with detestation, the theatres with approbation,
George Christy with cachinnation, and No. 2 Dey street with affiliation;
having visited Castle Garden, the model artists, and the American
Museum; in fact, knowing something of almost all the other places of
amusement in the city, I resolved to complete and crown my knowledge by
going to church, and I hope I may receive due credit for my pursuit of
amusement under difficulties. I made known my heroic determination to my
new-found friends, and they instantly resolved to bear me company--Bull
Dogge by way of variety, and Damphool from force of habit--(Bull Dogge
seldom goes to church, and Damphool _always_ does).
Sunday morning came, and the aforesaid individuals presented
themselves--B. D. looked pugnacious and pugilistic, and Damphool
perfectly marvellous--in fact, majestic as this latter-named person had
ever borne himself, and importantly huge as he had ever appeared, his
coat tails were now so wonderfully short, his collar so enviably large,
and so independently upright, and his hat so unusually and magnificently
lofty, that he certainly looked a bigger Damphool than ever before.
Walked up Broadway through a crowd of people of all sorts, sizes,
colors, and complexions; countrymen running over every third man they
met; New Yorkers threading their way through apparently
un-get-thro'-a-ble crowds without ruffling their tempers or their shirt
collars--(By the way, I have discovered that no one but a genuine New
Yorker, born and bred, can cross Broadway upon a dignified walk;)
firemen in red shirts, and their coats over their arms; newsboys with a
very scanty allowance of shirt, and no coats at all; Dutch emigrants,
with dirty faces, nasty breeches, and long loppy looking pipes; Irish
emigrants, with dirtier faces, nastier breeches, and short, stubbier
pipes; spruce-looking darkies, and wenches arrayed in rainbow-colored
habiliments--and at last reached the door of the church.
For about a quarter of a mile on either side of the entrance there
extended a row of carriages, lined with satin, with velvet cushions; and
on every carriage there were a couple of men with white gloves on, gold
bands round their hats, a black rosette on the side, and a short cloak
over their shoulders, with cloth enough in the multitudinous capes of
each to make a full suit of clothes for a common-sized man, and three or
four half grown boys. Bull Dogge informed me that these were the
liveried flunkies of our republican aristocracy, and that it was made
their business to sit outside the church and watch the lazy over-fed
horses, while their owners were inside saying American "amens" to
democratic prayers that liberty and equality may be established over all
the earth.
The coachman spends his Sabbath hours in the pious occupation of
cracking his whip at the little boys who are playing marbles on the
side-walk, reading the Sunday papers, and saying hard words at the flies
which make his horses shake their nettings off--while the genteel
footman goes to sleep in the carriage, with his boots out of the window,
and only arouses from his slumber in time to open the door for my lady,
as she comes from her courtly devotions.
We passed the scrutiny of these gentlemen without exciting any audible
impertinence, and reached the door of the church. Everything looked so
grandly gingerbready that I hesitated about going in. Little boy in the
corner (barefooted, with a letter in the post-office) told us to "go
_in_," and called us "_lemons_." Did not perceive the force of his
pomological remark, but "_went in_" nevertheless. Man in a white cravat
showed us to a pew; floor covered with carpet, and seat covered with
damask, with little stools to kneel down upon. Bull Dogge says that at
one time the prevailing style of pantaloons nearly caused a division in
the church, which was however compromised by an alteration in the
litany, and allowing the gentlemen to stand during the performance of
certain prayers instead of kneeling down, which latter feat was
difficult of accomplishment, on account of the _tightness of their
straps_. Some of the congregation were however so much offended that
they stayed away, and used home-made prayers, instead of coming to
church and dealing in the orthodox ready-made article.
Got inside; crowd of people; minister fenced up in a kind of back
closet, in a pulpit trimmed with red velvet and gilt-edged prayer-books.
Pretty soon, music--organ--sometimes grand and solemn, but generally
fast and lively enough for a contra-dance. (B. D. said the player got a
big salary to show off the organ, and draw a big house.)
He commenced to play Old Hundred (Damphool suggests Ancient Century).
At first, majestic as it should be, but soon his left hand began to get
unruly among the bass notes, then the right cut up a few monkey shines
in the treble; left threw in a large assortment of quavers, right led
off with a grand flourish and a few dozen variations; left struggled
manfully to keep up, but soon gave out, dead beat, and after that went
back to first principles, and hammered away religiously at Old Hundred,
in spite of the antics of its fellow; right struck up a march, marched
into a quick step, quickened into a gallop; left still kept at Old
Hundred; right put in all sorts of fantastic extras, to entice the left
from its sense of propriety; left still unmoved; right put in a few bars
of a popular waltz; left wavers a little; right strikes up a favorite
polka; left evidently yielding; right dashes into a jig; left now fairly
deserts its colors and goes over to the enemy, and both commence an
animated hornpipe, leaving poor Old Hundred to take care of itself.
Then with a crash, a squeak, a rush, a roar, a rumble, and an expiring
groan, the overture concluded and service began.