High Life in New York: A series of letters to Mr. Zephariah Slick, Justice of the Peace, and Deacon of the church over to Weathersfield in the state of ConnecticutStephens, Ann S. (Ann Sophia)
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High Life in New York: A series of letters to Mr. Zephariah Slick, Justice of the Peace, and Deacon of the church over to Weathersfield in the state of Connecticut
Stephens, Ann S. (Ann Sophia)
New York (N.Y.) -- Social life and customs -- 19th century
Oh gracious! I'd a gin something to have been in that feller's shoes, I
swan if I wouldn't a give her a buss right before 'em all--I couldn't a
help'd it if all creation had been at the door, and I swan, Par, I
believe you'd a up and give her a smack tu if you'd been by, old as you
be. The sight of her tarnal sweet winning ways was enough to rile up
the blood in a feller's heart, if he was as old and frosty as
Mathusaler's.
I don't wonder that the fellers stomped and clapped their paws,--I'm
afear'd I let out a young arthquake myself in that way. I tried to hold
in, but it wasn't the leastest might of use. That gal is like a
sky-rocket, she busts right on a feller and takes away his senses with
the blaze. I settled right down like a cabbage sprout in a hot sun.
Arter a while the gals all come down from the mountain agin, and begun
to cut up their tantrums; then a harnsome man with a cap and feathers
on, and clothes all kivered with silver and gold and precious stones,
come tipping along leading a great strapping woman as tall as all
out-doors, and dressed off in green like a bull-frog. They went into a
leetle sort of a cubby house with glass winders, and sot down to see the
rest dance.
Didn't they cut the dashes though! helter skelter, hurra boys; they went
at it like a flock of sheep at salting time. By-am-by they all give out,
and my gal, Fanny, she stood up with the leetle Yankee as if she was a
going to dance a jig. She'd put on another petticoat streaked yaller and
blue, but insted of running up and down, the streaks were a foot wide,
and run round and round like the hoops of a barrel. She'd lost her hat,
and a swad of the shineyest black hair that ever I saw on a gal's head
was kinder slicked down on the sides, and twistified up in a knot behind
her harnsome shaped head, and then topped off with a bunch of red roses
and a pink ribbon that hung streaming down her back about as long as
marm ties your cue, Par, when you go to meeting.
Wal, the leetle chap he begun to dance fust, and I thought I should a
haw-hawed right out to see him strain and exart himself, while she stood
by with her tarnal cunning head stuck a one side, so tickled, that the
tee-hee fairly bust through, and made her larf sort of easy all over,
but he didn't seem to know that she was a poking fun at him.
When the chap got through, Miss Elssler she jest sidled up as softly as
a snow storm--gin her foot a twirl, and took a sort of genteel dive as
if she was a going to swim in the air. Oh dear, didn't she swim, too! It
was like a bird on an apple tree limb in spring time, or a boy's kite a
sailing and ducking to a south wind. She didn't kick about, and shuffle,
and all that, as I've seen 'em do; nor did she pucker and twist and
sidle like the darned lazy varmints that I've seen among the fashionable
big bugs; but she was as chirk as a bird, as quick as a grasshopper, and
as soft as a mealy potatoe with the skin off.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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